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ZELDA DAVIES 


(Copyrighted by Paul M. 


Taylor) 







HEK SACRIFICE 


By 

Zelda Edloe Davies 

« » 



BROADWAY PUBLISHING COMPANY 
835 Broadway, New York 
1913 


?z* 

•D 2%^ 

M 


Copyright, 1913, 


BY 

Zelda Edloe Davies. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER. PAGE. 

I. What the letter contained i 

II. Arrival of the new sister and meeting of 

the young men n 

III. The understanding between them 22 

IV. The desire of his mother 29 

V. Dinner in honor of the newcomer 37 

VI. Picnic 47 

VII. Breaking of the engagement 60 

VIII. The Murder . . 69 

IX. The meeting between Alice and Myron in 

the garden 78 

X. The event of the season 86 

XI. Confiding her secrets to her diary 95 

XII. The day of the wedding 104 

XIII. The quarrel between the sisters 118 

XIV. Her duty 126 

XV. The trial and the result 134 

XVI. Her reward 149 




“ -V. 


HER SACRIFICE 


CHAPTER I. 

WHAT THE LETTER CONTAINED. 

Three young women stood on the piazza exchang- 
ing adieux that threatened to be rather prolonged, as 
each found a last word to say. 

‘‘Since you have come on foot, my dear Madame, I 
will accompany you to the end of the park. Will you 
come with us, aunt?” said a tall, stately girl. 

“Pshaw!” exclaimed the aunt in horror, “walk a 
good kilometer and a half in this heat, thank you ! It 
is well enough for you, who scarcely weigh sixty kilos 
and are as light-footed as sixteen !” 

“With several years added,” laughed the girl. 

“My dear Barrane,” observed the elder woman, 
turning to her guest, “I wish you would lecture her. 
It would be an act of charity. She may need your 
advice ; but I have given up in despair, for she never 
takes my words seriously.” 

“Because you are younger than I, Aunt Louise. 
Besides, in our youth, you formed a habit of laughing 
at everything. For fear of weeping at everything, 
perhaps.” 


HER SACRIFICE 


“What shall I lecture her on, Madame Vaudery?” 
asked the baroness, smiling as she shook hands for 
the last time with this lively, plump little woman 
called “ Aunt' Louise.” 

“On marriage, of course. It is nonsense for a 
good and pretty girl like her to shun marriage, not 
that one marries for pleasure. I know something of 
that, and she was right in remaining a young girl be- 
yond ordinary limits. But she must at last submit to 
it. It is a family and a patriotic duty, and should 
be taught in all those books of republican morals de- 
signed for the instruction of young girls. In fact, it 
is what we might call the obligatory feminine ser- 
vice.” 

“Very well, I shall take her to task. Not from the 
patriotic standpoint, but the lecture will be none the 
less profitable.” 

The glad June sunshine bathed the old chateau, 
giving life and gaiety to that imposing mass of gray 
stone, flanked by two enormous towers pierced with 
long, narrow loopholes. High perched on a hillock, 
the chateau presented a half barbaric aspect, with its 
plain facade and irregular windows. But nothing 
can resist the magic of sunshine, and the baroness 
cast a last admiring glance embracing the dwelling, 
the somewhat neglected garden, the immense ex- 
panse of forest, and the wonderful view of the sea 
beyond. 

“How I love your solitude, my dear Edloe!” she 
exclaimed. 

“This is the only place where I feel perfectly 
happy,” replied Edloe LaFaucher, with a quiet smile. 
“I am a hermit, and I adore this forest. The odor 
of the bushes and the rustling of dead leaves under 
my feet pursue me when I go into the world. The 
three months in Paris, which appear so insuflicien 4 
2 


HER SACRIFICE 


to my aunt, are so many months of exile to me. She 
cannot understand it ! She does not know that in the 
many hours I spend in the midst of my trees I am 
never alone ! That the branches speak and the birds 
warble to me ; and that the sky seen through this foli- 
age is more beautiful and radiant than elsewhere. 
You see how well fitted I am for a woman’s ordinary 
sphere; how well disposed I am to heed my aunt’s 
advice !” 

“And yet, my child ” 

“Oh ! I had forgotten,” laughed Edloe. “You have 
promised to lecture me.” 

The Baroness D’Arcy stopped in the middle of the 
path they were following, and her thin, emaciated 
fac$ brightened up with a smile so kind and radiant 
that for a moment she seemed almost beautiful, with 
her white hair and sparkling eyes. 

“Oh! my dear Edloe,” she said, “I can only say 
what comes from my heart to my lips — and you know 
that I want you for my daughter. I love you so 
much ! Almost as much as I love my only son !” 

Moved by these words of afifection, the young girl 
kissed the baroness, but made no reply. 

They resumed their walk in silence, and soon 
caught a glimpse of the blue sea through the trees 
that covered the hillock. The chateau was now 
hidden from view, entirely concealed in its nest of 
tall trees; the road turned abruptly to the right and 
the hillock disappeared to appear only now and then 
in the winding of the path. 

In all that enchanting Norman country in the vi- 
cinity of , there is perhaps no walk comparable 

to this avenue of the Cote boissee. Under their feet 4 
they crushed a thick, soft carpet of moss ; to the right 
and to the left extended the wild, luxuriant forest, 
brightened, here and there, by blossoms of wild roses ; 

3 


HER SACRIFICE 

in the distance stretched the immense expanse of 
water, glistening under the sun and displaying every 
tint from pale gray to dark blue. Then, further on, 
could be seen the mouth of the Seine, so vast, so im- 
posing, that Havre seemed but a thin, black line, dom- 
inated by its two lighthouses. A few white sails and 
the light smoke of passing steamers alone animated 
this immensity. The whole made an almost solemn 
impression of the infinite — of silence — of a horizon 
lost over there — far, far away, where it mingled with 
the sky itself. 

“Let us sit here for a while, Madame,” said Edloe, 
quietly. 

The tall trees of the forest were here replaced by 
pine shrubbery that emitted a delicious aromatic odor, 
and the absolute silence was broken only by the buzz- 
ing of insects or the rapid flight of the birds. The 
songs had ceased: two blackbirds alone chirruped in 
the distance. The baroness took the young girl’s hand 
into hers; Edloe raised her eyes and she saw the 
tears glistening in them. 

“I had no wish to pain you, my child,” she said, 
softly. 

“Oh ! my dear Madam, you did not pain me ! Only, 
in this very spot, I saw my mother weep, eighteen 
years ago to-day. I was very small and did not un- 
derstand, but I sobbed in her arms because she was 
sad and lonely. Since then, I have understood; and 
I can never breathe this pine odor nor look on this 
view of the ocean without again living over the scene 
of that day and repeating to myself that marriage 
when the woman alone loves, is the saddest and most 
heart-breaking thing that can be.” 

“All marriages are not unhappy, my poor, disen- 
chanted little girl.” 

“No, but many are ! I am twenty-four, and I have 
4 


HER SACRIFICE 


seen more than one of my friends unhappy, although 
all had dreamed of perfect happiness.” 

“I am sixty, Edloe, and my faith is stronger than 
yours. I have known perfect happiness, and have 
seen it around me. What I have also seen is that we 
often control our own destinies; that happiness, 
though it may waver for a while, may be recon- 
quered and retained. I admit it was not so with your 
poor mother, whom I dearly loved. In her case there 
existed one of those terrible fatalities which we sel- 
dom encounter. Your father appeared betwitched.” 

'‘Yes, my dear mother died of a broken heart — 
while he was happy. He married the one he adored ; 
he was husband-father. And he even forgot me !” 

“He would have taken you with him; but he re- 
spected the last wishes of your mother, who left you 
in her sister’s care. Yet he loved you.” 

“At a distance. But do not believe that I am 
harsh. I have long forgiven his neglect of me, which 
at last saved me from a contact that could not be any- 
thing but odious to me. Only, I would have wished 
to kiss him before he died. But all that is now very 
far away and almost forgotten. I am free to live as I 
please, to be happy in my own way, which is a great 
deal.” 

“Then must I renounce my hopes? I am only an 
old dreamer. If you only knew how many castles in 
the air I have built for my two children! I said to 
myself : Myron is a grave, industrious boy, with a 
heart of gold, made to appreciate the rare qualities 
of my little neighbor. Both love the country — long 
days spent in study, and evenings at home. She will 
become interested in his work and will help. It will 
be a union of minds as well as hearts. They are 
worthy of each other. All conspires in uniting them, 
age, fortune, family, everything!” 

5 


HER SACRIFICE 


“And probably, because everything conspires so 
well, the marriage will never take place! We were 
brought up together, and Myron always considered 
me as a comrade, or a sister.” 

“Yet from his letters it seemed to me that last 
winter when you met so often this mutual sympathy 
was assuming a more tender character — ithat the 
idea of this so much desired marriage frightened you 
less than formerly. Myron must, like myself, have 
deceived himself.” 

Edloe stood for a few minutes silent, absorbed in 
reflection, and much agitated by conflicting emo- 
tions. At last she turned back to her old friend, 
and the latter was struck by the painful expression 
that lingered in her dark eyes. 

“Listen to me,” said the girl in a suppressed voice ; 
“I will tell you all, and let you read into my heart. 
My dear dream, the dream I have caressed since 
childhood, was to be Myron’s wife, and to be your 
daughter. But he does not love me! Do not mis- 
understand me. Sometimes he believes he loves me, 
for he has a deep affection and a great esteem for 
me. He would marry me, believing in good faith that 
the union would make him happy. He is mistaken! 
I am sure of it! If ever I marry, I want to be loved 
and worshiped by my husband. Otherwise marriage 
would be odious to me — I would die. And I am in- 
capable of inspiring the passion which I know I could 
give in return. Why, there is something wanting 
in me — a charm, an attraction, a something, I know 
not what — which brings love to women less beauti- 
ful than myself. I feel it, believe me. I have had 
many admirers, it is true, for I am rich and intelli- 
gent enough to have attracted some. But in most 
cases the mothers have tried the wooing.” 

“Like me?” 


6 


HER SACRIFICE 

“Oh! If you only knew how I wish I could say 
yes at once and throw myself in your arms to weep 
for joy !” 

“Then you do love him?” 

“Perhaps — I question my heart, and yet it seems 
to me that when we really love there is no need of 
questioning, we know it. Will you make a compact 
with me? Myron will spend the summer with you; 
we are neighbors and intimate friends. I shall bring 
a little more animation into our lives, and invite some 
friends to visit me. That will give us many occa- 
sions to meet without exciting any comments. Be- 
for the autumn, Myron and I will know what to 
do.” 

“Shall I tell him this?” 

Edloe hesitated a moment, then replied: 

“Yes, if you wish it. But it must be well under- 
stood that we are both free, absolutely free ; that, at 
the first doubt, one must frankly and loyally say to 
the other, T do not love you as I should/ I know 
that Myron is worthy of my confidence, and that, 
like me, he will say anything is preferable to a mar- 
riage that would not be a perfect and absolute union ! 
The secret, however, must remain between us only. 
Say nothing of it to my aunt ! She would be so de- 
lighted, so exuberant at the prospect of this happi- 
ness, that she would frighten me and I would throw 
up the whole thing.” 

“Very well, my child, I shall be as silent as the 
grave. But I hope — I hope ” 

The two women had resumed their walk; at the 
turn of the winding path they met the postman. 

“Have you something for me, John?” inquired 
Edloe. 

“Yes, mademoiselle, and if you will take your let- 
ters now I shall return by the farmhouse. It will 
7 


HER SACRIFICE 


save me a good deal of walking,” replied the man. 

“Give them to me, and tell Duval to give you a 
good glass of cider.” 

“Thank you. Your servant, ladies,” and, with a 
bow, John turned slowly into the path that led to 
the farmhouse. 

Edloe looked at the letters, and put them in her 
pocket. 

“Why do you not read them ?” asked the baroness. 

“Oh! there is no hurry. They are all from old 
schoolmates. It is curious how all young girls and 
young women have the same writing, angular, regu- 
lar, and without expression. Unless I examined these 
three letters very closely, I should be unable to tell 
which is from Laura, Rena, or Euphemia. Suppose 
I invite them for the summer. One with her hus- 
band and the other two with their parents. They 
would make a gay party, and Myron can provide 
the young men.” 

They had now reached the white gate that sepa- 
rated the park from a cross road that led from Han- 
fleur to Trouville. The baroness was almost at home. 
She kissed Edloe even more tenderly than usual — ■ 
almost as if she already claimed her as a daughter. 
The girl instinctively shrank back, her timidity sud- 
denly reawakened. 

Edloe returned home by a rough, rocky path that 
ascended straight to the summit of the hillocks. The 
pine trees, shrubbery and mossy rock where the but- 
terflies fluttered gaily in the sunshine soon gave place 
to a deep forest with magnificent trees, whose inter- 
twined branches formed a thick shade. 

The path now became narrow, and the young girl 
soon found herself standing on the highest point of 
her domain. A large stone cross had been erected 
on the spot and the trees had been cut down to give 
8 


HER SACRIFICE 

a sudden view, not only of the ocean, but of the 
entire surrounding country. And on this beautiful 
day the panorama seemed like a fairy scene 

Edloe seated herself on one of the steps at the 
foot of the cross, threw her hat back, and took a long 
breath of the fresh air. Then her gaze wandered 
far over the sea, now streaked with long, dark lines, 
and she fell into a reverie. Had she told all, abso- 
lutely all to her old friend? Anxiously she sounded 
the depths of her heart. Then, little by little, with- 
out trying to understand why, an immense joy, an 
ineffable sweetness, a sensation almost of triumph, 
filled her entire being. Suddenly she murmured 
aloud: “I love — oh! my God! what happiness! I 
love, yes, I love with all my heart, with all my 
strength !” 

The June days are deliciously long, and dinner at 
the chateau was so late that it might well have been 
called supper. Yet Edloe started at the sound of the 
first bell that came to her from a distance. She must 
have been dreaming there for a long time! She 
arose, then, remembering her letters, sat down once 
more to read them, thinking she would have time to 
reach home before the second dinner bell. 

One of the letters attracted her attention; the 
writing, though resembling the others, was not fa- 
miliar to her. Searching her memory, as we some- 
times search when accosted by a person we do not 
recognize, she again examined the writing, the Paris 
postmark, the form of the envelope ; then, smiling at 
her hesitation, she opened and read the following 
lines : 

“My Dear Sister: For you are my sister. After 
my father’s death, I found a photograph that lie al- 
ways carried with him. I took possesion of it and 
9 


HER SACRIFICE 

loved it at once. It is the portrait of a little girl 
with large gray eyes; one of those little girls that 
never break their dolls, and who, when they find a 
young bird that has fallen from the nest, take it up 
and care for it tenderly. I am a fledgling fallen 
from the nest before my wings have grown. I am 
all alone in the world, and in my distress I turn to 
you, my sister, saying, ‘Take me, love me, for I love 
you, although I have never seen you !’ 

“My mother died more than two years ago. I de- 
test my guardian and he is very anxious to get rid 
of me. I am still at school, but I am seventeen and 
weary of it! My mother’s family would gladly wel- 
come me, but, if my mother was charming, her fam- 
ily Oh, well, how can I explain? Her family 

belong to the theaters, and the theater does not suit 
me. My guardian is trying to marry me to some one 
I don’t know, who will take me for my money, and 
I will not have ! 

“You are my elder sister, and you must be good, 
for those eyes cannot lie. Open your arms, my dear 
sister, that I may nestle into them. I will love you 
so much, kiss you so heartily and be so good that 
you will be delighted to have found, 

Your little sister, 

Alice LaFaucher, 


CHAPTER II. 


ARRIVAL OF THE NEW SISTER AND MEETING OF THE 
YOUNG MEN. 

The train from Paris dashed into the station at 
Trouville and two young men jumped lightly to the 
platform; but as if by common accord they stood 
near the door of the compartment they had just left. 
A young girl, so bewitchingly pretty that the hurry- 
ing passengers turned to look at her, was preparing 
to alight in turn, when her skirts caught in the door, 
and she would have fallen had not the two young 
men rushed to her assistance. 

“Thank you, gentlemen,” she murmured sweetly, 
bestowing a grateful glance at both with touching 
impartiality. 

“What is it, Alice?” asked a dignified matron who 
accompanied the girl. 

“I stumbled, madame, and ” 

She did not finish the explanation, but stumbled 
away impatiently toward the gate. 

“Who is she? Where is she going? I know ev- 
erybody in Trouville and its vicinity, but I never 
saw this little wonder,” said one of the young men 
as he stood looking after her. 

“Let us follow her,” said his companion. “We 
shall find out something about her. She is evidently 
an aristocrat, and yet there is something about her 
different from the girls around here.” 

The speaker was a handsome young man, who, in 
ii 


HER SACRIFICE 

spite of his civilian clothes, betrayed the soldier. His 
cold gray eyes, his pointed mustache and abrupt 
manners seemed to indicate that this young officer 
was anything but a kind superior. His companion 
was a plainer but a very nice man, with the dreamy 
blue eyes of a student. 

Alice hastened on, her eyes strained, searching 
for some one among the many persons that awaited 
the travelers. She knew that a great deal depended 
on the first meeting; and in her anxiety she com- 
pletely forgot the two young men, whose evident ad- 
miration had amused her during the journey. And 
yet, admiration was as necessary to her as the air 
she breathed. 

The moment Edloe LaFaucher caught a glimpse of 
this fresh young face she did not hesitate an instant. 
She turned slightly pale, but advanced resolutely, 
and said: 

“Your name is Alice LaFaucher, is it not?” 

Alice, much agitated and ready to burst into tears, 
threw herself into her elder sisters arms impulsively. 

“My sister,” she murmured softly. 

Edloe kissed the young girl cordially, and this kiss 
sealed a resolution to which she had come only after 
many struggles with herself. 

“Why, what a bewitchingly pretty sister I have 
found,” she said kindly, “you are simply exquisite!” 

“I am so glad I please you,” replied Alice, with 
an imploring glance. 

As Edloe looked up, she saw the two young men 
who had witnessed the meeting, and her pale face 
flushed suddenly. 

“Myron!” she exclaimed, “your mother did not 
expect you until to-morrow.” 

“I wanted to give her a surprise,” replied the 
12 


HER SACRIFICE 

young man, still looking admiringly at the younger 
sister. 

“Well, come with us, we shall leave you at your 
door then, turning to Alice, she added, not without 
an effort: “My sister, Mile. Alice LaFauche, M. Le 
Baron D’Arcy.” 

The young man bowed low. 

A little confusion followed. The teacher who had 
accompanied Alice wished to return to Paris by the 
first train, and Myron displayed much zeal in making 
all necessary arrangements. At last, he took his seat 
in the landau opposite the two young girls, and, for 
the first time since his introduction to the radiant 
beauty, he remembered his friend, who was staring 
at him enviously. 

As he was passing near the carriage, Myron beck- 
oned to him. 

“Edloe,” he said, “will you allow me to present an 
old college friend of mine who comes to spend his 
days of convalescence at Trouville. Captain Stamer 
will be a precious addition to the parties which my 
mother informed me you are preparing. Captain 
Stamer, M’lle LaFaucher. ,, 

Then the carriage moved away. The captain stood 
motionless for an instant, looking after the three 
young people whose merry laughter came to him. 
He felt slighted without knowing why, for, after all, 
Myron had introduced him. But Alice, as she had 
returned his bow, had given him a long glance. 
Again it seemed to him that this glance was different 
from that of other young girls — that it had nothing 
in common with a convent education. But, after all, 
she might not have been brought up in a convent! 
One thing was sure, she was certainly the prettiest 
girl he had ever seen; with her large, dark eyes— 
her sister — her sister's eyes— pink cheeks and golden 
13 


HER SACRIFICE 


hair. What an enchanting and piquant contrast be- 
tween the sisters ! Edloe, on the contrary, was a de- 
cided brunette, with olive complexion and glossy 
black hair. This tall, serious girl was rather hand- 
some, but who would care to give her a second glance 
when this bewitching little creature was at her side ! 

Myron was soon deposited at his own gate, and the 
two sisters were left alone in the carriage once more. 

"I am so happy, so happy,” murmured Alice softly, 
as she clasped her sister’s hand and looked implor- 
ingly into her eyes. 

Edloe smiled kindly, won by the caresses of this 
child, who seemed to beg for affection, claiming pro- 
tection. She was a naivete that would have melted 
a heart less tender than hers. She vaguely realized 
that this sweet and charming way of asking aid and 
protection must be absolutely irresistible with men. 
Alice’s mother had perhaps looked at her father 
as Alice was looking at her now. But this thought 
merely flashed through her mind, as a sharp pain vi- 
brates a wounded nerve. She abandoned herself to 
the joy of having found a being, weaker than her- 
self, whom she could love and pet to her heart’s con- 
tent. Once Edloe gave her heart, she never took it 
back. Her first instinct had been to repulse the 
stranger’s child, but she had welcomed her, and now 
she had adopted her loyally, absolutely. 

“My dear Alice,” she replied, “I did not tell you 
all in my letter. My mother’s sister, Mme. Vau- 
dery, who brought me up and whom I love very 
dearly, is living with me. You must try and win 
her affection, for — it is better you should know it at 
once — she opposed your coming very strongly.” 

“It is only natural,” replied Alice humbly. “She only 
sees my poor mamma’s daughter in me. I shall do 
14 


HER SACRIFICE 

all in my power to make her think of me only as 
your sister/' 

“How wise and full of common sense you are!” 
cried Edloe admiringly. 

“That is only an elementary principle,” said Alice, 
with a pretty ripple of laughter. “If you only win 
a person’s love you can obtain anything you want.” 

This profession of faith made the older sister’s 
eyes open wide. But it had been said so simply, as 
if the declaration admitted of no discussion, and 
was followed by such pretty babbling on the beauties 
of the country, on the joys she would find in her 
existence in the midst of these beautiful surround- 
ings, that Edloe soon forgot the impass — the remark 
had produced on her. 

When the carriage turned into the beautiful ave- 
nue that led to the chateau, which was still invisible, 
Alice became almost thoughtful. 

“And all this is yours, all this immense forest?” 
she asked. 

“Yes,” replied Edloe, smiling. “We may wander 
many hours over the grounds without leaving the 
domain.” 

“Then you must be rich, very rich.” 

“Not extravagantly rich. Properties like this one 
cost so much to keep up, although, as you see, I do 
not spend much in cultivating it, preferring a forest 
to a park — and it gives me such small returns. It is 
a wild luxury which I like. The wealth of my — of 
our father was divided in two. This property comes 
from my mother; from what I have learned, you 
must be richer than I.” 

“Possibly. Papa speculated with mamma’s money 
and increased it tenfold, so my guardian told me. 
At all events, there is no danger of either of us dying 
of starvation. It must be terrible to be poor.” 

IS 


HER SACRIFICE 

“Who knows? I would not be afraid to earn my 
living, at least I hope not.” 

Alice gave a little shudder of horror — earn a liv- 
ing, work, like those unfortunate under-teachers at 
the school she had just left! This little animal of 
luxury would have been incapable of it. 

The carriage turned into a wider avenue, shaded 
by tall beach trees. Suddenly the gray mass of the 
chateau, with its background of forest, wide, green 
lawn, flower beds and ancient oaks, came into view. 

“Why — it is imposing,” declared Alice, “quite like 
a castle of romance. Are there any ghosts in it?” 

Edloe reflected rather sadly that the ghost who 
would haunt the chateau would be the past in the 
person of Alice, the daughter of the woman who had 
cost her mother so many tears. Again she asked her- 
self if her dead mother did not reproach her this 
welcome, this triumphant entry; her aunt’s warning 
rang in her ears: “You shall see; misfortune will 
enter this house with the actress daughter.” 

But Edloe resolutely drove away these thoughts, 
and, bending over, she kissed her newly-found sister 
once more. 

“No, my darling,” she replied, “there are no ghosts 
in my home. And if there were, your gaiety would 
drive them away. You are welcome. If I can give 
you happiness, you shall have it. I promise it.” 

Much moved and a little frightened by her big sis- 
ter’s serious words, Alice looked at her with childish 
eyes full of tears; then, in an outburst of sincere 
gratitude, she said: 

“I judged you rightly, Edloe, or I never would 
have dared write to you. Papa often said to me, Tf 
ever you are in need of aid or protection, my little 
Alice, call on your sister — it will not be in vain, I 
assure you!’ And how many times I have thought 
16 


HER SACRIFICE 

of his words! Only how can I explain myself? — 
do not expect too much from me. I am not wicked, 
but I am afraid I am not very good. Yet it seems 
to me that with you I may learn to be much better. 
lYou will help me? Until now, I have thought of 
nothing but amusing myself to the best of my abil- 
ity. That is not quite your ideal of a girl, is it?” 

She made this confession in a half-serious, half- 
bantering tone, hoping to make a good impression on 
her sister. The latter smiled kindly, saying: “I love 
you as you are. Be always frank and loyal. It is 
all I ask of you.” 

The servants, curious to see the new “young lady,” 
had assembled on the steps to welcome her. Alice 
responded to their bows with a gracious smile, and 
was at once voted “charming, very pretty and not 
proud.” 

Mme. Vaudery was not there, however. They 
found her in her boudoir, half concealed behind an 
enormous frame, on which she was embroidering. 

“Aunt Louise, here is my sister Alice.” Edloe said 
these words with a particular emphasis. She was 
very fond of her aunt, but, after all, she alone was 
mistress at the chateau, and, when necessary, she 
did not hesitate to assert herself. 

The aunt’s hands, however, suddenly became so 
entangled in silks and wool that she could only offer 
one finger to the newcomer ; then she again vanished 
behind her frame without deigning to notice the dis- 
comfiture depicted on the pretty face of Alice. 

“Good-day, mademoiselle. I hope you had a pleas- 
ant journey. Very dusty, is it not? I detest trav- 
eling by rail,” was her cold greeting. 

“Thank you, madame, the journey was pleasant 
enough. But, I beg of you, my name is Alice, and 
Edloe calls me that.” 


1 7 


HER SACRIFICE 


“Humph ! Edloe may do as she pleases. It was 
she invited you; she pretends you are her sister. 
That may all be very true. But if I am her aunt, I 
am not yours. Her mother was my sister, a sister I 
loved very dearly. ,, 

“I know it, madame. You do not wish my pres- 
ence here. It is only natural. But if you would 
only look into my eyes — like that — you would see 
that I am not wicked ; that I would be grieved to be 
the cause of any trouble between you and my sister, 
and that I will do all in my power that you may one 
day forgive me — for being my mother’s daughter.” 

Then, overcome by emotions she had already un- 
dergone during the day, and this first resistance, al- 
though expected, Alice burst into tears, sobbing vio- 
lently like a child who wants to be soothed and con- 
soled. 

Annoyed by this scene, Mme. Vaudrey suddenly 
emerged from behind her screen, saying coldly: 

“There, mademoiselle, there — Alice!” 

“Forgive me, madame,” sobbed Alice, nestling 
closer to her sister. “I am not doing it on purpose. 
I could not help it. It is all over now.” 

“Then I suppose I must kiss you to seal the peace.” 

“Oh! if you would only not hate me.” 

“But it is not you, it is the past I hate. Come! 
We will say no more about it. There, are you satis- 
fied?” 

And Aunt Louise imprinted a kiss on the girl’s 
forehead, unable to resist Edloe’s imploring glance. 

The storm had abated as quickly as it had come 
up. Alice laughed through her tears and thanked 
Mme. Vaudery in little phrases intermingled with 
stifled sobs. 

Edloe now hurried off to her room. As she looked 
after the two girls, the elder one’s arm around her 
18 


HER SACRIFICE 

sister’s waist, Aunt Louise muttered: “Well, if any- 
body had told me that I would kiss her — but, with 
those eyes, she can twist any one around her finger. 
Edloe is fairly bewitched. Bah ! we shall soon marry 
her off and be left in peace. But there is no deny- 
ing that she is beautiful ” 

Edloe’s apartments consisted of a large room over- 
looking the garden and a boudoir in the large tower 
at the right of the castle. This circular boudoir was 
a delicious retreat. The wall was so thick that the 
sill of the narrow windows, which were provided 
with cushions, made a cozy seat, from which a beau- 
tiful view of the surrounding country could be seen. 
A narrow, winding stairway, also cut into the thick 
wall, led to the garden through a small door which 
no one but Edloe used. This same little stairway 
also led to the floor above, but the apartments there 
were seldom used. Next to the bedroom and open- 
ing into it was another very large and pleasant room. 

“This will be your room, Alice; that is, if it pleases 
you,” said Edloe, as she opened the door. If you 
prefer it, however, I shall have the apartments above 
mine prepared for you. But I thought — especially 
if you are afraid of ghosts — that you would prefer 
to remain under my wing. You may share my bou- 
doir ; as you see, there is a piano, books, a desk, and 
it is quite large enough for both.” 

“I want to be near you, Edloe, always near you. 
I am so happy with you. And what a pretty room 
you have given me ! Oh ! how happy we shall be to- 
gether.” 

She flitted about, nervous and excited, anxious to 
visit the castle at once, while the maid opened her 
trunks and put the room in order. 

The back of the chateau was very irregular, with 

19 


HER SACRIFICE 


its funnel-shaped turrets, old-fashioned wings and a 
number of small interior courtyards paved with enor- 
mous stone flags; all built at divers times, accord- 
ing to the needs of the hour. It presented a vivid 
contrast with the plain, almost severe facade. Fur- 
ther on were the barns and stables ; then the kitchen 
garden and the vast orchard, and beyond that the 
silent forest spreading on all sides. 

Alice was in ecstasy and clapped her hands in de- 
light at the thought of living in the midst of these 
charming surroundings. How she would amuse her- 
self in playing the farm maid. But ideas of coun- 
try life were somewhat confused in this giddy little 
brain. 

‘‘And you will give great fetes?” she cried delight- 
edly, “and have lots of visitors. How delightful! 
That gentleman — what do you call him — said so. 
How queer he never thought of marrying you, since 
you are neighbors. The country makes one feel like 
marrying ” 

“As you see, you are mistaken, since I am still 
single.” 

“Your turn will come. That gentleman pleases 
me very much, although he is a little round shoul- 
dered; he must write a great deal. His friend, the 
military man, is also charming. We traveled in the 
same compartment all the way. And what fun I 
had! They both looked at me constantly. And I 
dropped my handkerchief several times to see them 
scramble for it. Once they knocked their heads to- 
gether and I almost laughed aloud. Then, as I was 
getting off, I nearly fell, and both rushed to my as- 
sistance. Each received one of my smiles in return, 
so that neither is jealous of the other.” 

“I hope you are not a flirt, my dear Alice,” said 
20 


HER SACRIFICE 


Edloe, gravely, only half pleased by this childish 
prattle. 

“I don’t know, but I am afraid I must be — but 
then I told you I was not good.” 


21 


CHAPTER III. 


THE UNDERSTANDING BETWEEN THEM. 

Edloe had never had a close friend to whom she 
could confide her girlish secrets, her schoolmates 
having been nothing more than companions. This 
may explain why she had early begun to keep a dairy. 
She loved to analyze her thoughts and sentiments, 
and confided all to her journal with absolute sincer- 
ity. This she called the examination of her heart. 
Often, when the rest of the household was buried in 
profound slumber, Edloe unlocked her secretary and 
took out a book which no eyes but hers had ever 
seen. Carefully stowed in another compartment 
were several similar volumes containing a faithful 
record of all the thoughts and incidents of former 
years. Sometimes she opened one at random, and 
found long- forgotten events, which, at the time had 
seemed of supreme importance; enthusiasms that 
had quickly died out, childish griefs that provoked a 
smile, beginnings of romances which had never gone 
beyond the first chapter, declarations and opinions of 
eighteen which now made her blush. But she pre- 
served them all, for she thus learned to know her- 
self and be indulgent to those who, in their turn, 
matured slowly, displaying intolerance, violence, 
thoughtlessness. Just as the fruits are bitter and 
acid before ripening — she also learned to be patient 
and not despair with herself when she found herself 
giving away to pride and intolerance. 

22 


HER SACRIFICE 


One night, when her sister had fallen into the deep 
slumber of a child weary of play, Edloe took out her 
dairy and resumed her writing. 

“Nothing since. It is not indolence, neither is it 
the gay life we have led for the past week, that has 
prevented me from writing; it is rather that I did 
not clearly read within my own heart, or, perhaps, 
that I would not write now. 

“When that child entered my life I was thinking of 
making a radical change in it. I was beginning to 
whisper to myself very low and timidly: ‘I love/ 
The pride which made me silent and cold to Myron, 
that made me assume the defensive the moment his 
mother tried to speak of him, was insensibly melting 
away, and I was happy! I feared that I was not 
loved as intensely as I wished to be loved, that Myron 
would marry me because the union seemed to be de- 
sirable in the eyes of our families and of the world. 
Since a few months, this fear was sweetly fading 
away. In Paris we met very often. When Myron 
entered our little boudoir his eyes sparkled, and then 
there was a smile on his lips. This seemed to say 
that he was happy to be at my side. He never posed 
as a lover, but we both knew that we had been des- 
tined to each other for many years, and we con- 
versed freely, like comrades and devoted, almost af- 
fectionate friends. If I admired a book or play, it 
always happened that he was also very euthusiastic 
over it. His work interested me, and I was of some 
little service to him, by reading and making notes of 
certain German words that treated of the subject on 
which he was writing. ‘What a delight it is to work 
with you, Edloe/ he observed one day. ‘I see better 
through your eyes than through my own !’ And sud- 
denly there arose a vision of another existence, a 
united, happy, perhaps somewhat serious life, but full 
23 


HER SACRIFICE 


of tenderness and sweetness. That day he held my 
hand in his a little longer than usual, and I made no 
attempt to withdraw it. Oh, how happy I was, no 
one knows. 

“And since that moment I feel that I love him, 
that I love him with all the strength and passion of 
my nature. I try to hide my feelings ; and that fear, 
the fear of loving more than I am loved, makes me 
cold, distant and constrained. And yet 

“His mother must have repeated our conversation 
to him. Yesterday, for the first time since his re- 
turn, we were alone for an instant. After break- 
fast, at Alice’s request, we went out to choose a fa- 
vorable spot for lawn tennis. The young officer, 
Allen Stamer, whom, I must admit, I half dislike, 
had gone off with my sister and the rest, while 
Myron and I remained on the lawn. 

“ ‘Edloe/ he said suddenly, in a voice that grated 
harshly on my ears, ‘it is unworthy of us to remain 
in this false position. We meet and act as if — as if 
there existed no understanding between us. And 
yet we are to be married some day, are we not?’ 

“I felt chilled — but why? What demon makes 
me so cold when my heart is overflowing? Was it, 
perhaps, that I missed a certain vibration in his 
voice, a something that would have cried out louder 
than his words ! ‘Do you not see that I love you ?’ 

“Before replying I turned away to pluck a rose, 
and, without even a tremor in my voice, said : 

“ ‘No, Myron ; I will have no engagement. Let 
us remain free as we are. At the end of the sum- 
mer, we shall either part good friends or marry. 
Until then, let us be free, absolutely free. And if 
then one of us can say ‘I do not love you as I should/ 
let us promise each other to feel nothing but grati- 
24 


HER SACRIFICE 

tilde; for the greatest disloyalty would be to marry 
without love.’ 

“Myron gazed at me for a long time in silence. 
He seemed to be searching in my face for something 
that was not there; just as a few moments before I 
had listened to his voice, trying to discover a tremor 
I did not hear. I felt like marble, so great was my 
effort to dominate my feelings. For at that moment 
it almost seemed a disloyalty to let him see how 
much I loved him. Then, with a sigh of discourage- 
ment or impatience, I know not which, he turned 
away and said in an injured tone: 

“ ‘I admire your calmness and good sense. Remain 
free. As for me, until you say clearly: 

“ T do not love you, I shall consider you my 
fiancee.’ 

“ ‘No, no; that would be unjust!’ I cried. 

“I trembled with emotion and my voice sounded 
strangely even to my own ears. He, perhaps, saw 
that my calmness was only assumed, for he said: 

“ ‘As you please, Edloe.’ 

“ ‘But no one must suspect ’ 

“ ‘No one shall suspect. Besides/ he added, with a 
tinge of bitterness, ‘it would be difficult for one to 
believe us anything more than old friends, from your 
attitude towards me/ ” 

This was a strange betrothal. It seemed rather a 
struggle between two strong wills. And yet, in spite 
of all,* I am happy. It also seems to me that, since 
our explanation^ Myron is more at ease. This man, 
whose youth has been spent in serious study, has 
always been wanting in gaiety, and now he seems to 
be making up for lost time, taking an absolute holi- 
day, and enjoying himself like a schoolboy. His 
mother is radiant. I am happy in the joyous atmos- 
phere that surrounds us, and feel rejuvenated. I am 

25 


HER SACRIFICE 


filled with strong impulse to sing, to run, to commit 
a thousand follies. I scarcely recognize my old self ; 
and Aunt Louise, seeing me so happy, almost for- 
gives Alice, for she attributes this sudden change to 
her. 

“And, indeed, Alice is partly the cause of it. Her 
budding youth fills the air with joy, and upsets the 
tranquillity of the old chateau. She must have noise, 
bustle and change, hers is not a contemplative nature 
and her enthusiasm for the country would soon die 
out if it presented nothing but the cares of a poultry 
yard, the worlds in the field or garden. She has 
nothing of the peasant, but the life of a chatelaine 
suits her best. Mme. D’Arcy, like the rest, fell in 
love with her at once, and together they have planned 
excursions to the forest of Tonques, also dances, and 
I know not what else. Myron often invites his 
friends, and all these young men go straight to my 
little sister. That something which attracts, that 
mysterious gift which is independent of beauty, that 
particular charm of the universally adored woman — 
in a word, that something which is wanting in me, 
The peasants who bow respectfully to me turn to 
look at her; even the animals feel this curious mag- 
netism, the birds do not fly away at her approach, 
the dogs beg for her caresses. Everywhere and to 
everybody she is a sovereign, a beloved and adored 
being. I do not know if she is fully conscious of her 
power; but she is certainly happy and enjoys it like 
a veritable child. She is one of those penitents who, 
thanks to a past confession and sure of a future ab- 
solution, continues to sin with perfect impunity, be- 
lieving herself almost authorized. And is always 
being remonstrated with. 

“But she is so childish, so affectionate, so grateful 
for the love I shower upon her, and so caressing 
2 6 


HER SACRIFICE 

withal, that I cannot help forgiving her. ‘Caress- 
ing/ sneered Aunt Louise, the other day, ‘yes, indeed, 
but so is my cat when she wants something! Not- 
withstanding this severity, however, Aunt Louise is 
also bewitched by the charms of this magician. I 
do not think Alice endowed with extraordinary in- 
telligence, and doubt if ever the great problems of 
right or wrong, of the immortality of the soul, or 
even of the social questions have troubled her sleep. 
But in worldly matters she is shrewd. Then she 
wants to be loved by all and forever, and she has a 
thousand ways of attaining her ends. In Aunt Lou- 
ise she at once discovered an artist who in default 
of pencils and paints achieves marvels with her 
needles. Alice may, perhaps, know how to hem a 
handkerchief — which I doubt — but she requested 
Aunt Louise with imperturbable gravity to initiate 
here into the mysteries of that delicate and compli- 
cated embroidery of which she makes draperies, en- 
tire pieces of furniture, exquisite things, so beautiful 
that we dare not use them. The enthusiastic young 
novice even prevailed upon her to let her see the old 
vestments and church ornaments obtained at great 
expense from a curiosity shop. Only ! she cautioned 
Alice, ‘you must not tell M. Le. Wellington ; he so 
naively admires all I do, if he only suspected !’ And 
the little hypocrite answered gravely, ‘Oh, that 
would be betraying the professional secret, since I 
aspire to become your pupil/ Aunt Louise has a 
peculiar way of sniffling when she doubts anything; 
she sniffled noisily as she muttered : ‘That little hypo- 
crite is laughing at me.’ But the little hypocrite 
spent a whole hour trying to learn a stitch while she 
chattered very sensibly. I was making a pretense of 
reading during this scene, and could scarcely keep a 
straight face. My aunt’s severity melted before my 
2 7 


HER SACRIFICE 


eyes. That hour of patience achieved more for this 
intruder — as Aunt Louise still called her. It is true 
that when the hour was up Alice folded her work and 
put it away in a pretty little work basket which 
naturally is seldom used, and said, sweetly, ‘Come, 
Edloe, let us take a run in the park/ Aunt Louise 
shrugged her shoulders, but looked at her pupil with 
a smile full of maternal indulgence. A little more 
and she will be conquered.” 


28 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE DESIRE OF HIS MOTHER. 

Nature had apparently destined Myron D’Arcy 
for a life of gaiety and idleness. He was the only 
son of a widow, free, handsome, the possessor of a 
rich estate, and nothing drove him to grave studies or 
great ambitions. Happily for him, at the age when 
young men usually dissipate, he felt attracted toward 
intellectual pursuits. As a pupil of the Ecole des 
Chartres, he had early distinguished himself among 
his classmates by displaying a wonderful talent as 
historian, and, while still young, he had conceived 
the idea of works to be entitled “History of the Duke 
of Winchester in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth 
Centuries.” This undertaking required innumerable 
researches, years of work and travel, and would 
have proved beyond the reach of less favored indi- 
viduals. Notwithstanding these advantages, how- 
ever, he had attained the age of twenty-eight and 
the first chapter of his book was still unwritten. 
Notes accumulated, his sphere of studies widened, 
but the result seemed far from encouraging. He 
had, nevertheless, abstracted a few amusing details 
from this mass of documents, and given them to the 
world through the Revue Historique, and the articles 
had been well received. He had dominated a small 
subject, he would one day triumph over a great one. 
He would be a great writer in the true sense of the 
word, and, though his vast undertaking arose before 
29 


HER SACRIFICE 

him more and more formidable every day, he would 
conquer it. Victory was still far away, no doubt, 
but it would come; he could be patient, since he felt 
his strength. 

This secret interior struggle, which had absorbed 
all his thoughts and energy, made him taciturn, and 
as the years passed away, more silent and reserved. 
He loved his mother tenderly, but he could not in- 
itiate her into his ambitions, dreams and doubts of 
himself, for she would have suffered without under- 
standing. 

What she certainly could not understand was the 
life of seclusion led by this big boy of hers, who 
could be gay and even boisterous when the occasion 
presented itself. 

Naturally Mme. D’Arcy was anxious to see him 
marry, and Edloe LaFaucher, in her eyes, and in the 
eyes of the world in general, was the ideal wife for a 
serious man like her son. For several years Myron 
refused to hear of marriage. Then, each time he 
met Edloe, he became more interested in her, and 
finally admitted that, in fact, she did not resemble 
ordinary girls, who were greedy of amusements, lux- 
ury and change. The attraction he had felt for her 
visibly increased during that winter in Paris, and the 
young man sincerely believed himself in love with 
his charming neighbor, and began to look forward to 
a life of sweet happiness spent with this intellectual 
and somewhat grave woman. 

When his mother, a little frightened at the ini- 
tiative she had taken, timidly related the conversa- 
tion that had taken place between Edloe and herself, 
Myron remained silent for a moment, then, kneeling 
before her, he clasped her in his arms and said: 

“Then it would make you happy to have a daugh- 
ter as well as a son?” 


30 


HER SACRIFICE 


“So happy, my dear boy.” 

“I can well understand it, my dear mother, for I 
am continually buried in my dusky documents, and 
am becoming very unsociable.” 

“But I don’t want you to marry for me, my son. 
If you love Edloe, marry her; but if you do not love 
her, it would be a cruel error for her as well as for 
you.” 

“What a sentimental mother you are,” he laughed. 
“I love Edloe very much, and believe I have always 
felt a great affection for her. But is it a passion? 
I believe not. After all, perhaps I am incapable of 
feeling that passion. If Edloe becomes my wife, as 
I say it, an ineffable sweetness invades my heart, 
and who knows? it may be love if she becomes my 
wife, I swear that she shall be happy and I shall be 
contented. Does that suffice you?” 

“It suffices me, but it will not satisfy her. Edloe 
has seen her mother suffer, and children have a won- 
derful faculty of understanding griefs. But, then, 
you have the whole season before you to decide.” 

“I prefer to decide at once. Once my word is 
given, I would look neither to the right nor to the 
left; but those half engagements are really no en- 
gagement.” 

“It will disturb your studies, will it not?” said the 
mother, with a smile. 

“Perhaps.” 

It may have been that, but there was also another 
reason. In evoking Edloe’s image, Myron always 
saw it accompanied by another. The two insep- 
arable sisters formed a striking contrast ; the one tall, 
slender, with beautiful deep, grave eyes; the other, 
small, dazzling with sunshine, dimples and exquisite 
colorings, whose every glance attracted, whose every 
smile enchanted and bewitched. And he was not 


HER SACRIFICE 


sure that he listened to the grave voice rather than 
to the pearly laugh; that his gaze followed the dig- 
nified, stately figure, rather than the dimpled, child- 
ish face. This resulted in an uneasiness he refused 
to define, almost a remorse that he could not analyze. 

And he regretted more and more each day not to 
have bound himself by lover’s vow to the woman he 
still desired to marry. 

Not only was he free from vows, but no one 
seemed to suspect that a closer intimacy than in the 
past existed between them, not even Aunt Louise, 
who had renounced her fruitless remonstrances and 
almost resigned herself to the idea that Edloe would 
remain single. Myron visited the chateau more fre- 
quently than in the past, but Alice’s presence and 
the gay parties daily gathered there explained the 
change. Moreover, the young man declared that, 
having overworked himself during the winter, he 
intended to take an absolute vacation, to live an out- 
door life, to swim, to ride, to dance and commit a 
thousand follies and somehow or other the chateau 
was always on his way. 

He was always accompanied by his old comrade, 
Captain Stamer. Though of diametrically opposite 
characters, they had always been intimate friends at 
college, their very difference of temperament pro- 
ducing an attraction they could not resist. Captain 
Stamer had early announced his intention of enter- 
ing the military school, and affected great contempt 
for “bookworms.” 

He was naturally of violent temper, and somewhat 
brutal, believing physical force the supreme argu- 
ment in all disputes. But Myron having repeatedly 
proved that he did not excel in moral reasonings 
only, the young officer conceived a certain respect for 
32 


HER SACRIFICE 

that “bookworm’’ who possessed powerful muscles 
and knew how to use them, too. 

Under this apparent intimacy, however, the old 
friction was often felt, less openly than in their col- 
lege days, perhaps, but deeper and more seriously. 
Military life had developed the captain’s brutality, 
and he often boasted of the fear he inspired in the 
men under his command, regretting that the prac- 
tice of torturing them was not permitted as in other 
places, claiming that an army is really strong only 
when the soldiers are reduced to automatons. 

One day he related before the two sisters how he 
had tortured a soldier, never losing sight of him, 
always discovering him in fault, overwhelming him 
with abuse, punishments, humiliations ; in fact, treat- 
ing him like a brute. Then suddenly, the brute re- 
belled again, the soldier disappeared and was in- 
scribed as a deserter. 

“It was a good riddance,” he concluded, “for his 
example had a bad effect on the rest.” 

“And, thanks to you, there is one man’s life 
ruined,” cried Edloe, indignantly. “I do not con- 
gratulate you on the fact, captain.” 

“The cockle must be plucked from the grain, 
mademoiselle. Blind obedience is the soldier’s first 
duty, and an indispensable quality.” 

“It also seems to me that other qualities besides se- 
verity are indispensable in an officer,” retorted the 
girl, with flushed cheeks. 

Alice had listened in silence. The young officer, 
with his cold, gray eyes, attracted her strangely. 
She considered Edloe very severe in her judgment, 
and admired the captain for his bantering replies, 
as if, in fact, feminine appreciation in such matters 
could not be treated seriously. It pleased her very 
much, and flattered her vanity, to think that this 
33 


HER SACRIFICE 


man, who was feared by his soldiers, who wa^ cap- 
able of violence, even injustice, could be so gentle 
and submissive to her, for the captain was her slave. 
He was ever at her side, showering a thousand deli- 
cate little attentions on her, flushing with joy or 
turning pale with fear, according to her cold or 
gracious treatment of him. This amused the coquet 
very much. Edloe’s remonstrances were of no avail, 
and for the first time she realized that being weak 
and malleable in appearance often possesses a power 
of resistance and elastic obstinacy that nothing can 
overcome. Reasoning is powerless with such na- 
tures. “Since it amuses me,” was Alice’s only reply. 
The entire universe and all its inhabitants were, in 
her opinion, created for Mile. Alice LaFaucher’s sole 
pleasure because she was so pretty, charming and 
exquisite. 

Besides, she was so loving and caressing that Edloe 
soon ceased her homilies. After all, Captain Stamer 
could take care of himself, and all she asked was 
that Alice should not marry him. 

Marry him? Oh, no, indeed! Become the wife 
of an officer and be dragged from garrison to garri- 
son, to hear of nothing but drilling or promotion of 
a favorite comrade ! No, never ! Besides to be called 
Mme. Stamer, she who loved only pretty names 
with — and the foolish child stopped, confused and 
flushed. 

“You are a preacher in petticoats !” cried Alice, as 
Edloe attempted to renew her expostulations. “But, 
my dear sister, you might as well resign yourself to 
it. I shall never be perfect, read serious books, nor 
become a remarkable woman. Oh! you need not 
frown, the whole world myself included, recognizes 
that you are remarkable. Mme. D’Arcy never utters 
your name without proclaiming your merits, her stu- 
34 


HER SACRIFICE 


dious son entertains you with the progress of his 
works — what an hour ! — but how tiresome it must be ! 
No one ever dreams of talking to me about anything 
but bathing, dancing, or other gay, pretty and de- 
licious things. I am nothing but a petted child — 
although I am shrewd enough, I assure you — a weak 
being, who must be treated with sweet tenderness, 
who must be fed on bonbons, who must be adorned 
and perpetually smiling, whose mission in this world 
is to be pretty and allow herself to be protected. If 
you think I do not see and understand, you are mis- 
taken. I am not the doll that they think me. I know 
very well what I want and what I am doing. I have 
a will, too, I assure you 1” 

As she went on she became more and more excited, 
her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled. 

“What is all this about, Alice ?” said Edloe quietly. 
“You are what you are — that is, simply adorable !” 

Even the most violent emotions were of short du- 
ration in Alice. She burst into a laugh and crept into 
her sister’s arms with so much caressing affection 
that Edloe was quite touched. 

“Then you truly love me, Edloe?” she murmured. 

“I love you blindly. Until now my heart has re- 
mained closed, but it has opened for you — you whom 
I repulsed at first. I love you as a sister, almost as 
a mother. I want you to be happy and good, good 
above all. There is nothing I would not do to make 
you happy.” 

“Nothing?” whispered the young sister. 

“Nothing.” 

Alice was silent for a moment, then, with a seri- 
ous expression, she said: 

“Listen to me, Edloe. It seems to me that I am 
robbing you. You believe me better, more affection- 
ate, more worthy of being loved than I really am. 

35 


HER SACRIFICE 


I have tried more than once to make you understand 
that I have many faults, but you will not believe me. 
I have not wished to deceive you, for you are ten 
thousand times better than I.” 

“Love me, Alice; it is all I ask.” 

“Oh ! as for that ” 

And a tender kiss terminated the phrase. 


36 


CHAPTER V. 


DINNER IN HONOR OF THE NEWCOMER. 

Since the death of her beloved husband, six years 
before, Mme. D’Arcy had lived in strict retirement 
For the first time, she now resolved to open her 
doors to society. The neighboring chateaux, villas 
and manors were crowded with visitors, and Mme. 
D’Arcy had only to make a sign to be surrounded by 
the notables of the country. 

She sent out invitations to a dinner in honor of 
Alice LaFaucher, whose arrival at the chateau of 
Cote-Boisee had occasioned so much comment. 

Everybody knew the story of “that poor little 
Mme. LaFaucher” — as they still call her — who had 
died of grief, and the adoption of this half-sister by 
Mile. LaFaucher; the admission of the enemy’s child 
in the victim’s house, had been diversely criticised. 

The cure approved his young parishioner openly. 
She had accomplished a duty, a difficult, even pain- 
ful duty, and there, at least, virtue had brought its 
own reward. In tearing this charming child from 
dangerous surroundings, where her soul was in peril, 
in removing her from the contact of relatives more 
or less connected with the theater, Edloe has secured 
a gay, young companion, an affectionate and grateful 
sister, who charmed every one. Even M. le — * — , 
the best of men, while delivering his Sunday sermon, 
gazed with admiration at the pew of the chateau. 
Alice always attended the services with the most de- 
37 


HER SACRIFICE 

mure little air in the world ; once she had even taken 

up the collection, and M. le , like the rest of 

his parishioners, succumbed to the charm of her be- 
witching beauty. 

Mme. D’Arcy’s house was a large, modern struc- 
ture in the style of the Italian villas. The roof was 
flat and surrounded by a balustrade, and the view 
from it was so beautiful that they often spent their 
evenings there. At the back of the house could be 
seen the thick forest that stretched along the hillocks ; 
but the widow’s favorite site was the vast garden 
that sloped to the road. Here she gave full sway to 
a passion for flowers. None in the neighborhood 
could boast of such a green lawn or magnificent roses 
as bloomed in the beds. The most varied and rarest 
specimens were displayed in all corners, perfuming 
the air with their fragrance. The only fault Mme. 
D’Arcy ever found with Edloe was that she preferred 
the forest to her garden, to dream the hours away in 
sombre paths instead of cultivating these bright blos- 
soms. But perfection is not of this world! 

The sisters, accompanied by Aunt Louise, arrived 
early on the day of the dinner, that they might en- 
joy the beautiful June afternoon in the midst of the 
delicious perfume of roses, then in all their splendor. 
Both were dressed in white, but Edloe’s soft woolen 
dress was a little severe, without the least bit of lace, 
while Alice’s costume of mousseline de soie was 
brightened by knots of pale pink ribbon that set off 
her delicate blonde beauty and dark eyes. Aunt 
Louise was forced to admit that she had never seen 
a more fascinating or bewitchingly pretty creature. 
And as demure as a little saint withal! She never 
left her sister’s side and did her best to subdue 
her merry laughter and coquettish instincts, that she 
might receive her sister’s praises on their return ; but, 
38 


HER SACRIFICE 


whenever she did raise her pretty eyes, they were 
none the less brilliant, and the dimples suddenly re- 
appeared more bewitching than ever in her dazzling 
smile. 

As Alice had seen only the drawing room and gar- 
den, Myron escorted the sisters through the prop- 
erty. The grounds sloped so rapidly that the back of 
the house they were almost on a level with the sec- 
ond story. One of the walks led directly to a large 
room filled with books and a desk littered with pa- 
pers. Alice peeped in curiously. 

“Is this where you work, Monsieur D’Arcy?” she 
asked. “Is this where you write that terribly seri- 
ous book I have been told about?” 

“Yes, mademoiselle, I am very quiet here, this 
corner of the garden is almost always deserted, as 
you see, I can step right into the forest.” 

“Admit that you seldom use the door, but jump 
right out of the window,” laughed Edloe. 

“True enough,” assented Myron. “It is a habit of 
my boyhood, which I have never given up. It is so 
convenient, and one need not to be an acrobat to gjet 
in the same way. You see that these houses, built 
contrary to common sense, have some good points.” 

“And are you not afraid? If you can get in so 
easily, others can do as much. I would dream of 
nothing but burglars, if I slept in such a room!” 
cried Alice, who never posed as a brave girl. 

“There is not the least danger, mademoiselle. Be- 
sides, look at that pretty revolver over there, which 
my mother insists on keeping near me. .It has not 
been taken out of its case for years. Moreover she 
has provided me with that beautiful panoply, less as 
an ornament for the chimney piece than to make 
people think me of a belligerent disposition. Bufr4>. 
trust more to the honesty of the people than to^k 


HER SACRIFICE 


false reputation. But come, let us visit the barns, 
fields and park. It will take a full hour before din- 
ner. Mother has not slept for a week, for fear her 
dinner will not be worthy of the occasion. Come, let 
us get up an appetite.” 

While the young people wandered through the gar- 
dens the two matrons sat quietly chatting in the draw- 
ing room. After a last tour of inspection through the 
kitchen and dining room Mme. D’Arcy was now 
ready to receive her guests. Mme. Vaudery and 
herself were intimate friends, and yet it would have 
been difficult to find two women more dissimilar. The 
baroness was a dreamer, still young in heart; pre- 
served so, perhaps by her isolated life. She had let 
her watch run down on the day of her husband’s 
death, and had never thought of winding it up since ; 
she lived entirely in the past, and even her deep ma- 
ternal love had not been sufficient to reawaken her to 
the interests of the present day. 

Her neighbor, on the contrary, had early resigned 
herself to partial happiness. She claimed that the 
little satisfactions of life, skilfully cultivated, form 
a very acceptable semblance of happiness, that to re- 
awaken sleeping sorrows was folly ; that laughter was 
the right of mankind, and it was the height of ab- 
surdity to deprive one’s self of it. The more so 
since laughter, according to her, comprised an in- 
finity of agreeable things, like good eating, luxury, 
the contact of witty persons, when we are lucky 
enough to meet them, or to be satisfied with agree- 
able and cultivated friends when the former are not 
available. 

“It seems to me that your son is becoming 
younger,” said Mme. Vaudery to the baroness; “there 
he is, laughing as if he had never poked his nose in 
the dusty archives of foreign affairs.” 

40 


HER SACRIFICE 


“Heaven be thanked! But you must remember 
that I always predicted that Myron would grow 
younger with time. He was too serious at twenty — 
it was not natural, and then ” 

Mme. D’Arcy’s tongue itched to tell Aunt Louise 
all her hopes, but she stopped short. Had she not 
promised Edloe that she would be silent? If Aunt 
Louise would only guess ! It seemed to her that this 
change in Myron was significant enough. 

“And then,” interposed Mme. Vaudery, “there is 
nothing like a pair of bright eyes to dissipate the 
mists of study. Come, my friend, do not look so be- 
wildered, for you know as well as I do that since 
Alice’s arrival Myron has abandoned his books. If 
he does not know he is in love, I do.” 

“You are mistaken; you are mistaken, I assure 
you,” protested the baroness, quickly. 

“Tut, tut, tut, I am rarely mistaken in these mat- 
ters. Since I have become a mere spectator, I keep 
my glasses in order, and find great amusement in 
watching those little manoeuvres. After all, my 
good friend, you have nothing to complain of, you 
desired Mile. LaFaucher as a daughter-in-law, and 
this one is charming. I am not much in love with 
her, but I admit that she is truly bewitching.” 

“And,” added her friend, who was beginning to 
recover her composure, “you would be delighted to 
get rid of her by marrying her off as quickly as pos- 
sible.” 

“Certainly ! She disturbs my old habits. Then I 
am afraid I shall finally succumb to her charms. I 
struggle against it, and it is really tiresome.” 

“Then, even you admit that she is exquisite,” said 
the baroness, whose maternal egotism was aroused at 
the thought that Myron might possibly prefer the 
41 


HER SACRIFICE 

younger sister — for, after all, there was no positive 
engagement. 

“If I admit it! Why, since I know her, I almost 
forgive my brother-in-law. The old legend of sirens 
will be repeated as long as the world lasts. Alice is 
the picture of her mother, except her eyes, which she 
inherits from her father. I often went in secret to 
see her mother on the stage, and such an actress I 
never saw; such fascination, such grace, such charm 
— in fact, she possessed everything but a heart. In 
the daughter, I find the same intonations of the voice, 
the same smile that suddenly illuminates the face like 
a ray of sunshine through a passing cloud. Look at 
her, when we sit down we simply take a chair to 
rest, and our skirts fall around us as best they may, 
while Alice’s • dress arranges itself gracefully into 
harmonious folds ; when she speaks, her gestures are 
rounded, never angular, and all that is so natural; 
her words are never confused, each syllable has its 
value, her voice is modulated with an art that is in- 
nate in her. Elocution was inculcated in her, by 
simply listening to her mother.” 

“But,” observed her friend, “you say that her 
mother possessed everything but a heart. Does Alice 
resemble her in that respect also?” 

“I have not yet solved that problem. It is possible 
that she may have one. To see her with Edloe, one 
would swear it. She overwhelms her with caresses, 
follows here everywhere like a child, tries to help her 
with the management of the house and gets every- 
thing in a muddle, of course. She rushes to give 
orders to the farmers, forgets all about them, and 
stops to play with the chickens or the dogs, just be- 
cause Edloe also loves chickens and dogs. She is al- 
ways gay, admires everything, goes into ecstasies 
over the scenery, splashes delightedly in the water, 
4 2 


HER SACRIFICE 


walks, runs, and leads her sister about, while she 
seems to be following her. But this is a new play- 
thing. The country in July, with its noisy roads, 
innumerable bathers, chateaux filled with guests, is 
well enough. But wait till November, when she is 
reduced to our quiet society.” 

“Youth finds happiness everywhere and always,” 
murmured the baroness, indulgently. “In any case, 
it is evident that Edloe loves her very much and will 
do anything for her.” 

“If she entices her to Paris a month or two earlier 
than usual, I shall not complain, for my part. Still, 
Edloe is by no means weak; if she considers it her 
duty to resist any whim, she will resist, you may be 
sure. Then, we shall see. Alice reminds me of the 
soft, supple silk I use in my embroidery. It threads 
easily, caresses the fingers, and lends itself to our 
wishes; then, suddenly, without apparent cause, it 
forms a small, almost imperceptible knot and breaks 
the needle short. So far, no knot has appeared, but 
it may come yet.” 

The knot appeared before the end of the evening. 

The dinner was a success. The guests were mostly 
young, eager for amusement, and did full justice to 
the numerous dishes. The table was decorated with 
the most beautiful flowers from the garden, and the 
wide open windows admitted the balmy air of the 
beautiful summer evening. Alice began to forget her 
resolutions. She felt that she was incontestably the 
queen of the feast, the prettiest and most admired 
of all the women present, and the joy of her triumph 
was betrayed in her merry laugh and the brightness 
of her eyes. Captain Stamer was her neighbor, and 
she amused herself by completely turning his head. 
Myron, who, in his capacity as host was seated be- 
tween two elderly matrons, shot envious glances at 
43 


HER SACRIFICE 

the corner where Alice enlivened everything by her 
Parisian wit. 

Fully conscious of these glances, she redoubled her 
coquetry. Edloe was too far away to check her sis- 
ter’s exuberance; besides, everybody was gay and it 
was hard to lecture this child for a few pearly laughs. 
Then, the dear little Alice was so pretty and admired. 
The thought of her being jealous of this newcomer, 
who eclipsed her so completely, never even crossed 
her mind. On the contrary, she was extremely proud 
of her little sister’s beauty and success. 

After dinner, they drank coffee in the garden, and 
Edloe came to her sister’s side and clasped her arm 
around her waist. The young people formed a gay 
and noisy group, the moon shone with extraordinary 
brilliancy, and it was almost as light as day. 

“You are very warm, Alice,” observed Edloe as 
she noticed her flushed cheeks. “Put this lace scarf 
around your neck. Do you know, Mademoiselle, that 
you were very noisy at dinner ? What have you done 
with that exemplary behavior of the first part of the 
day.” 

“I have passed it to you, Edloe, it never incon- 
veniences you. I cannot endure it more than an hour 
at a time. Ah ! let me be a little wild. It is so good 
to be foolish, and also, one is seventeen only twelve 
months. If you knew what projects we have formed. 
Ah! what fun we shall have, shall we not, Cap- 
tain?” 

And what are those projects?” asked Edloe, smil- 
ing indulgently. 

“Shall I take part in them?” broke in Myron, com- 
ing near, not daring to ask himself which of the 
two sisters attracted him there. 

“Of course you shall, so will the Captain, and all 
these gentlemen. We shall be eight young girls and 
44 


HER SACRIFICE 


we must have escorts. To begin with, Monday we 
shall breakfast at the Georgia fountain, shall we not 
Edloe?” 

“Then we shall play a comedy. Society comedies 
are so amusing, especially in the country. The large 
drawing-room with the little boudoir is just suited 
for the purpose. The Captain is an admirable actor, 
and I ” 

Alice stopped short. Her sister had withdrawn 
her arm and seemed very pale in the moonlight. 

“Not that, Alice not that!” she exclaimed, in an 
altered voice. 

“Why not?” asked the young girl, angrily, her 
pretty face clouding up at this first contradiction to 
her caprices. 

“Drawing-room comedies are, no doubt, very 
amusing things for theatres; but very tiresome for 
the others, I assure you.” 

“But we shall all be actors, the young people at 
least ; and the others don't count.” 

“In my house, the others do count, Alice. We 
shall have no comedy.” 

This was said in a tone that admitted of no reply. 
They all understood that Edloe had not given the 
true reason of her antipathy to theatricals. Alice 
raised her head haughtily; her features assumed a 
cold, harsh expression, and she said, nonchalantly: 

“As you wish, of course. Monsieur D’Arcy, please 
give me your arm. I would like to admire the view 
from the terrace. We can go up, can we not? Come 
all, I am sure that in this moonlight the sea must 
be perfectly wonderful!” 

Edloe did not follow them. Something in the man- 
ner Alice had taken Myron’s arm had struck her. 
She turned back and took a seat beside Mme. 
D’Arcy. The baroness took her hand affectionately, 
45 


HER SACRIFICE 


as if to beg forgiveness for her infidelity during the 
conversation with Aunt Louise. 

“Are you ill, Edloe ?” she said, “shall we go in ?” 

“Oh no, we are so comfortable here.” 

“Then what is it?” 

“I am a little sad, that is all. It is a strange con- 
tradiction of my nature that makes me sad when 
others are gay. But what will you do. I am no 
longer eighteen. As Alice says, one is eighteen only 
twelve months. Was I ever eighteen? I begin to 
fear not.” 

“That will come, my dear. Like Myron, you will 
grow younger with time.” 

“Perhaps!” murmured the girl^ “In fact, this 
evening Myron is very young.” 

And she fell into a sad reverie. 


46 


CHAPTER VI. 


PICNIC. 

The road that leads to “Fontain De Georgia’’ as- 
cends rapidly between the high walls of vast estates, 
through the gates of which can be seen well kept 
gardens, chateaux, villas, and prosperous farms. 
Half way up the hillock is a path, in which carriages 
seldom venture. It is a very solitary and silent 
place, where even the barking of a dog 
awakens strange echoes. Soon the forest becomes 
thicker, the sea is lost to sight, and nothing 
is heard but the abrupt flight of the startled 
bird or the rustling of leaves in the soft summer 
breeze. Then, suddenly a rustic bridge is reached, 
and on the other side of the stream is a clearing, de- 
void of underbrush, and shaded by enormous beech- 
trees. In the very middle, almost at the foot of the 
oldest and most venerable tree, spurts a spring of 
clear cool water that forms into a crystal pond be- 
fore running into the brook. A prettier spot for 
love, happiness, and gaiety, could not be found; it 
is the domain of Queen Edloe. 

To please her sister, Edloe had organized a picnic 
on this charming spot, and had redoubled in kind- 
ness and affection to make her forget her contradic- 
tion concerning the comedy. Alice was not angry, oh, 
no ! But, now and then, a light cloud on the young 
face, an almost perceptible sigh, showed that this lit- 
tle qreature was thinking of things she could not 
47 


HER SACRIFICE 


speak of. For the first time, her caprices were not 
law. She was astonished, hurt even, but she never- 
theless forgave. Edloe was so good, and she could 
not expect to rise above the “prejudices” of her 
castle. Alice, in her mother’s world, had been taught 
to scorn these “prejudices” and, as her ideas were 
still crude and confused, she classed many things 
under that category. She often shocked Aunt Louise 
by the excessive indulgence she entertained for cer- 
tain liberties of speech and conduct, but in Edloe’s 
presence she instinctively concealed her imperfect 
knowledge of the world, feeling that her elder sister 
was more of a “society woman,” in the true sense of 
the word than she was herself. 

Most of the guests to Mme. D’Arcy’s dinner were 
at the picnic. Many young girls were accompanied 
by their mothers ; among these were, two gay and 
somewhat giddy American girls, who had rented an 
old manor near Cote-Boise and for whom Alice pro- 
fessed a great friendship. 

The life of the party was Captain Stamer, who 
had driven over at full gallop. As he neared the 
rustic bridge, his exhausted and panting horse shied. 
Feeling that all eyes were upon him, the officer forced 
his rearing steed across the bridge several times, 
lashing and spurring him pitilessly, until the poor 
beast almost fell. 

“Spare the poor beast, spare him, I beg of you !” 
cried Edloe, indignantly, “believe me, the spectacle 
is anything but an agreeable one, and you have suffi- 
ciently proven your horsemanship.” 

“I am at your orders, mademoiselle,” he replied, 
gallantly. “But if you had command of a regiment, 
or the breaking in of a horse, you would be obliged 
to harden your tender heart.” 

4a 


HER SACRIFICE 


“I can, nevertheless, command obedience when oc- 
casion requires/ she said simply. 

“I am the proof of that,” retorted the handsome 
Captain, bowing- with an ironical smile. 

And he immediately began to make himself useful, 
offering his services to all, laughing gaily, and bust- 
ling about. Alice gazed at him with evident satisfac- 
tion. That day, the equilibrium she so skillfully main- 
tained among her admirers — and all the young men 
she met were naturally classed under this category 
— was a little disturbed in favor of the young officer. 

The latter, moreover, made no attempt to conceal 
his admiration; he boldly, almost brutally, devoured 
her with his eyes. She wore a simple light blue 
dress, that became her blonde beauty wonderfully. 
She made a great pretense of being busy, rolling her 
sleeves to the elbow, and pinning her skirts just high 
enough to display the daintiest little foot imaginable, 
while the other girls opened enormous baskets sent 
on before. 

Alice offered to fill the water bottles at the spring, 
Captain Stamer agreeing to carry them back when 
once filled. To do this, she must stand on the stones 
placed there to facilitate, and lean over. How could 
she refuse the willing hand stretched to assist her! 
In fact, she had no choice. And how pretty she 
looked, half kneeling, holding the bottle in her right 
hand, while the Captain firmly clasped the other. 
He bent over also and, for an instant, the limpid 
water reflected the two faces together. 

“See, Mademoiselle Alice,” he whispered, trem- 
bling with emotion, “the spring unites us. It is the 
divinity of the place, and the will of the gods is 
sacred.” 

“It is nothing but water,” laughed Alice, not in 
49 


? HER SACRIFICE 

the least shocked, “and poets say that the billows 
are perfidious.” 

“Let me tell you that I adore you !” said the young- 
man, earnestly; “you are driving me mad. I have 
loved you since the first day I saw you.” 

“What, in that horrid railway compartment!” in- 
terrupted Alice. “The shrill whistles, the five-min- 
ute stops, and the dirty, ill-smelling smoke, are not 
poetic accessories, you must admit.” 

“You are laughing at me! But I shall go on re- 
peating that I adore you until you are forced to be- 
lieve it.” 

“But I do believe it.” 

“Ah! and it displeases you?” 

“Not at all. It amuses me.” 

The young officer gave such a start that Alice al- 
most lost her equilibrium; and this equilibrium was 
of more importance than even the other. 

“Be careful !’ she cried. “The bottle was nearly 
full ; now I shall have to start over again.” 

“So much the better.” 

“Alice!” called her sister, “be careful, or you will 
take a disagreeable bath. Besides, you must hurry, 
we are waiting to begin.” 

“I am coming! This is my last bottle.” 

“Will you allow me to speak to you in private 
after breakfast, where no one can disturb us?” asked 
the lover. 

Alice made no reply, but gave him a smile and a 
glance that fully satisfied the gallant Captain. 

This little scene, which scarcely lasted five min- 
utes, had been observed by other eyes as vigilant as 
those of the elder sister. While assisting Agatha St. 
Store in unpacking a monstrous ham and a delicious 
pate, Myron had watched the Captain’s attitude and 
Alice’s coquetries. 


50 


HER SACRIFICE 


“Do you know, Monsieur D’Arcy, that you are 
answering me at random?” said Agatha. “I asked 
you where we should put the pate, and you replied, 
'In the water/” 

“I thought you spoke of the champagne, made- 
moiselle.” 

“You see very well ” 

“That you have turned my head.” 

“I? Oh, no, it is not I.” 

And the American girl glanced mischievously at 
Alice, who was returning from the spring with a 
bottle in her hand, while Myron flushed furiously, 
angry with himself for his weakness. 

Then they believed him in love with Alice? He? 
Why, he was engaged, or as good as engaged, to 
Edloe. Once more he regretted that the engagement 
should have been kept secret. He was on the point 
of telling all on the spot, but he dared not. Edloe 
desired her liberty for herself as well as for him ; and 
in fact, that calm personage seemed far from being 
in love or jealous. No doubt, she would soon in- 
form him, in that cold, gentle voice of hers, that he 
was free ; that she could not be his wife. At this 
thought he was filled with a violent emotion, an 
emotion that strongly resembled joy. Yet, he had 
desired this marriage, and, without feeling a verita- 
ble passion for his childhood friend, he had felt at- 
tracted toward her, had done full justice to the quali- 
ties of her heart and mind. Then? 

But he dismissed the subject; he would be happy 
for a few hours, if it was possible. 

The Captain had found a place for Alice opposite 
her sister, but Myron was ever watchful. 

“Mademoiselle Alice,” he said, “Edloe has reserved 
one end of her throne for you. Come, you will form 
an adorable group together, and we shall be your 
5 * 


HER SACRIFICE 


subjects.” Alice arose at once. A throne, whether 
made of the roots of a tree, or of gilded wood and 
velvet, was hers by right. With a merry laugh, she 
glided among the groups, leaped lightly over an enor- 
mous basket, and landed beside her sister. Throw- 
ing one arm around Edloe’s waist, she nestled close- 
ly at her side. She instinctively knew that she never 
appeared to better advantage than when her laugh- 
ing, mischievous face rested against the regular but 
pale and serious features of the young Chatelaine. 
Alice was always more prodigal with her caresses in 
the presence of witnesses, and beside her Edloe 
seemed almost cold, reserving her caresses for the 
privacy of their home. 

When Myron arose to get the champagne, which 
was on ice at some distance from the table, the Cap- 
tain followed him, and said, angrily: 

“You offered her that seat beside her sister to take 
her away from me !” 

“It is quite possible,” replied Myron, calmly. 
“Here, take this bottle, I shall take charge of the 
rest.” 

“You take charge of a great many things, even of 
some that do not concern you. You are jealous of 
me, furiously jealous!” 

“See here, my friend, this is no place to make a 
Scene, we are observed. I introduced you to those 
young girls, and I am, in a measure, responsible for 
your conduct. You forget that you are not in a 
garrison, and that in our world we do not court a 
woman with beating drums.” 

“As long as that style of courtship succeeds bet- 
ter than your languishing airs — but you are neither 
her father or brother, that I am aware.” 

“Enough, Stamer. Mile. LaFaucher is almost a 
52 


HER SACRIFICE 

child and does not realize how much you compro- 
mise her.” 

“And you intend to warn her?” 

“Yes, herself or her sister.” 

“We shall see about it.” 

They said no more, for the discussion was attract- 
ing- attention. 

“You must be preparing a duel,” laughed Agatha 
Store, little guessing how near the truth she was. 

“You have guessed it,” replied Stamer. “It is to 
be a champagne duel. Myron pretends that his head 
is ifiore solid than mine. The wagers !” 

From that moment, the champagne seemed to 
produce its effect beforehand on the young officer, 
his contagious gaiety soon won the rest, with the 
exception of Edloe, who could not overcome a sense 
of uneasiness. 

After breakfast, which was prolonged as much as 
possible, there was some discussion as to what was 
to be done. The indefatigable American girls pro- 
posed games, but it was decidedly too warm. The 
greater number sat in the shade of the tall trees, 
while a few of the young girls, among whom was 
Alice, wandered off in search of flowers and ferns. 
Myron, overcome by remorse, seated himself beside 
his fiancee, conversing tenderly and affectionately, 
and poor Edloe was happy for a moment, believing 
he was returning to her, that the momentary fascina- 
tion had passed away. Suddenly she saw him start. 

“What is it?” she asked. 

“Do you see your sister over there with the rest 
of the young girls? Your eyes are better than mine.” 

“No, she is not there.” 

“And Stamer has disappeared, too. I should have 
suspected it.” 


HER SACRIFICE 

b - 

“Why? What has happened?” cried Edloe, anx- 
iously. 

“Edloe, it is all my fault. I introduced Stamer, 
because he was an old friend, and I could not help 
it; but I should have warned you. He is a violent, 
unscrupulous fellow, and not at all a suitable hus- 
band for your sister.” 

“Oh, Alice has no intention of becoming his wife, 
I assure you. She has carefully weighed the pros 
and cons, for, in spite of her giddy manners, she has 
a singularly well developed, practical sense of life. 
She will only marry advantageously. The Captain 
is only a military man, not wealthy, and the name is 
not high-sounding enough to tempt her.” 

“But he compromises her. I am sure her friends 
over there know she has given him a rendezvous, and 
are gossiping about her?” 

“Let us go together,” said Edloe, rising, “it will 
look more natural than if you went alone. They 
cannot be far.” 

They walked on in silence, for Edloe could not help 
thinking that Myron showed more irritation and 
nervousness than the occasion seemed to warrant. 

While gathering flowers and ferns for all, Stamer 
had gradually enticed Alice from the rest under pre- 
text of finding late violets. The forest was very thick 
and shady at this point, and the brook flowed with 
delicious coolness. 

“But where are your violets?” she asked. 

“Further on, where they alone will hear us,” he 
replied. 

“Then you have laid a trap for me?” said Alice, 
smiling and thoroughly composed. 

“No, it is the rendezvous you have granted me.” 

“I have granted you nothing, Captain,” 

54 


HER SACRIFICE 

“You think not? Then your eyes have lied to me, 
that is all.” 

“What did my eyes tell you?” 

“That you were willing to listen to me; that you 
knew I was foolishly in love with you, and that you 
were ready to share that folly ” 

“Then they surely lied. I assure you, Captain, that 
I will never commit any folly, that I am a very sen- 
sible little girl.” 

“If you are a sensible little girl, then you are aware 
that the best thing you can do is to get married as 
soon as possible.” 

A cloud gathered on the girl’s brow. 

“Why, I am not eighteen.” 

“Why? I shall tell you why. Because you will 
not be happy long with your sister. Just now she 
plays the little mamma to perfection ; you are a new 
doll of which she is very fond, but it will not last. 
You come from two worlds, not only different, but 
hostile. When you proposed a comedy the other 
day, Mile. LaFaucher feared you would play it too 
well, — show that you were your mother’s daughter.” 

Alice broke a branch with a snap and angrily 
plucked the leaves, but she remained silent. 

“It is not much,” went on the Captain, “but straws 
indicate which way the wind blows. Your sister 
spends eight or nine months of the year in the coun- 
try, and you cannot expect her to make a change in 
her habits to please you, to take you out into the 
world where you would be welcomed as a queen 
while she would be neglected.” 

“You are pleading your own cause,” observed 
the girl with a shade of sarcasm. 

“Yes, for I love you. You must be my wife, mine 
forever. There is nothing I would not do to win 
55 


HER SACRIFICE 


you; if necessary, I would tear you away by force 
from this world so ill-suited to you.” 

“And from Myron D’Arcy,” laughed Alice. 

“Ah! you know that he loves you too — and it 
amuses you just as my love amuses you. Beware, 
Alice, I swear that I would kill you rather than see 
you the wife of another.” 

“Dramas are out of date, remember.” 

“On the stage rather than in life. Never has pas- 
sion been the cause of more crimes than in our days 
— and I would not shrink from crime.” 

Until this moment, Alice had retained that disdain- 
ful calm of the Parisian girl, little inclined to the 
sentimental and brave withall. But she now began 
to fear this importunate lover, wondering if the nu- 
merous glasses of champagne he drank at breakfast 
were not the cause of his exaltation. She thought 
him simply frightful with his bloodshot eyes, his pant- 
ing breath and flushed face; she no longer recog- 
nized her handsome Captain in this excited man. 

“Monsieur Stamer,” she said in a dignified tone, 
“you will have the kindness to take me back to my 
friends? You were wrong in enticing me so far 
away, and I was wrong in following you, but I never 
for an instant doubted that you were a man of 
honor.” 

“Give me a little hope, Alice,” he pleaded. “Have 
pity on me, I swear that you must be my wife !” 

Grasping her hands he covered them with pas- 
sionate kisses. For the first time in her life, the girl 
was really frightened. 

“Edloe ! Edloe !” she called, her voice ringing clear 
and sharp. 

“Here I am, my darling. I have been looking for 
you for the last twenty minutes,” replied her sister’s 
quiet voice. 


56 


HER SACRIFICE 


At the presence of Edloe, she immediately recov- 
ered her presence of mind. 

“The Captain said there was a bank of violets in 
this direction,” she exclaimed, “and we have circled 
around this thicket so many times that we did not 
know which way to get out. I shall go with sister 
now,” she added to the young officer ; “she knows 
the way better than you do.” 

The two sisters walked away arm in arm, while 
Myron gazed at his old friend in silence, resolved to 
demand an explanation. 

“So I am indebted to you for this interruption, 
too!” exclaimed Stamer, his voice quivering with 
anger. 

“Certainly,” replied Myron, quietly. 

“I want you to understand that I have had enough 
of your surveillance.” 

“You shall have to submit to it nevertheless, un- 
less you remain at your home in the future.” 

“You would only be glad to rid yourself of a dan- 
gerous rival,” sneered Stamer. 

“You are entirely mistaken, I have no pretentions 
to Alice LaFaucher’s hand.” 

The Captain burst into a forced, ironical laugh. 

“And I know that you are madly in love. I know 
all the symptoms of that malady!” he said bitterly. 
“Well, no, my dear fellow, I will not be complaisant 
enough to leave the field to you. I will go to the 
chateau to-morrow, the next day, and every day, if 
it suits me.” 

“I shall find the means to prevent you,” said My- 
ron, beginning to lose his self command. 

“Indeed, how so?” 

“By requesting Mile. LaFaucher to refuse you 
admittance.” 

“You dare not do that.” 

57 


HER SACRIFICE 


“I will do it.” 

The two men glared at each other, their old an- 
tipathy of nature turned to hatred; and this hatred 
in Stamer became a sort of wild fury. He rushed 
at his rival, with murder in his eyes, but Myron was 
on the alert and repulsed him with such violence 
that the officer lost his equilibrium. The same threat- 
ened to become a pugilistic encounter, but Myron, 
who was vigorous in spite of, his sedentary life, seized 
his adversary’s hand, and said sternly: 

“Have you lost your senses? We are only a few 
feet from all these people and they must have heard 
your angry words. We must not have that young 
girl’s name mixed up in this quarrel. The affair, 
however, cannot stop here. You want a duel? Well, 
I am not averse to it myself. But we must find a 
plausible pretext. You have the reputation of being 
a sharp gambler. I shall meet you at the beach at 
the end of the week. We shall appear together on 
the beach at the hour of the promenade and act as 
comrades, as in the past. Later we can have a game 
of cards, and the quarrel will follow. Then we shall 
fight to the death. If you kill me, it will be one solu- 
tion of the matter. But I warn you that if the ad- 
vantage is on my side, I will not spare you. I shall 
kill you without mercy, for I hate you !” 

“Your hatred cannot be more intense than mine! 
As to the results I have no fears. I am a skillful 
swordsman, while you scarcely know how to handle 
a sword; and as for the pistol, I hit the mark five 
times out of sixi” 

Myron shrugged his shoulders. At that moment, 
he cared little for life. He had at last read his own 
heart. By the intensity of his hatred, he realized that 
he loved the sister of the woman to whom he was 
pledged, that he loved her madly, and was a traitor 
> 58 


HER SACRIFICE 


to his word. Edloe had offered him freedom, but 
he had refused to take it, and he was, therefore, 
faithless. 

The Captain went straight to his horse, and gal- 
loped off without taking leave of the party of young 
girls grouped around the fountain, commenting anx- 
iously on the quarrel they had partly overheard. 
Myron excused his friend’s abrupt departure by 
pleading sudden indisposition. No one, however, 
was duped by his apology, and the day that had be- 
gun so gaily ended sadly and gloomily. 

The whole party now started toward the road, 
where the carriages awaited them, Edloe, however, 
succeeded in falling behind the rest with Myron. 

“What has happened?” she asked, eagerly. 

“Why, nothing, my dear Edloe. Only I fear 
Stamer took that wager about champagne seriously. 
I remonstrated with him, and, for a moment, he lost 
his temper. But he is a sensible fellow after all, 
and understood that the best thing he could do was 
to go, and he went. That is all.” 

Edloe, not wishing to show that she doubted the 
story, remained silent, absorbed in reflection. She 
understood many things that day. She suffered in- 
tensely, and shut herself in that reserve way habitual 
to her, to hide her feelings. 

“Myron,” she said at last, “I wish to have some 
serious conversation with you. There will be a re- 
ception at the Stores Tuesday. I shall send Alice 
with my aunt, and find some excuse to remain at 
home myself. Meet me at the stone cross at half- 
past three. No one will disturb us there.” 

“I will be there, Edloe,” he answered, gravely. 
His heart was also filled with sadness. The life 
which had appeared so sweet and beautiful before 
him now seemed to open lamentably gloomy. 

59 


CHAPTER VII. 


BREAKING OF THE ENGAGEMENT. 

“You know, Edloe, that I should be delighted to 
stay with you,” said Alice, sweetly, as she bent over 
her sister, “and you would see what an excellent 
nurse I am.” 

“Thank you, my darling ; when I have these head- 
aches, I must have quiet and solitude. Make my ex- 
cuses to Mrs. Store and be sure to have a good time.” 

Alice looked at her sister’s pale face compassion- 
ately. She was never ill, and Edloe’s heavy eyelids 
made her appreciate her own pink cheeks and cherry 
lips. She lowered the curtains, gave a satisfied glance 
at her pretty figure in the mirror as she passed, and 
returned to her sister’s side. “I wish I could be of 
some use to you,” she said, kissing the pale cheek 
once more ; “you are always so good to me.” 

Edloe smiled and dismissed her with a caution 
not to flirt with the Captain. 

“Nor with Myron?” retorted the girl laughingly. 

“Nor with Myron,” repeated Edloe, gravely. 

As soon as the carriage with her aunt and sister 
had rolled away, Edloe arose, bathed her face in cold 
water, and feverishly paced up and down the room. 
Then going to her boudoir, she took out her diary. 
She was really ill, having passed a sleepless night, but 
she felt that she must do something while awaiting 
the hour fixed to meet Myron, and she wrote rapidly, 
confiding her thoughts to her only confidant. 

60 


HER SACRIFICE 

“Tuesday, June 21 — It is now only two; I have 
time to think, to question myself. 

“What is going on within me ? Why am I ill and 
sad — sad unto death? 

“And yet it is all quite simple. When Mme. 
D'Arcy asked me to be her daughter, I imposed the 
condition that Myron and myself should be free. 
In an hour I shall tell him that we cannot marry, 
for he does not love me. I do not want to suffer 
the agony my poor mother suffered before me. I 
prefer to suffer now. 

“This so much desired and wise marriage, in which 
all conditions seemed so favorable, for a time seemed 
acceptable to him. Then, in one instant, these hopes, 
so carefully planned, crumbled like a house of cards 
under the breath of a child. The passion which, 
alas ! I could not inspire in him, has been inspired 
by another. He will not believe it; he struggles 
against it, but in vain. He will receive his liberty, 
his happiness from my hands. It is, nevertheless, 
very cruel, to think that Myron will never love me. 
The woman he adores is Alice, my sister. 

“She captured his heart while toying with it, as 
she did with Captain Stamer’s. Does she know the 
value of that heart? Ah! what a problem is life, 
and how blindly we grope in search of duty ! 

“After all, have I not also a right to happiness! 
Why sacrifice myself? Why not struggle? It may 
be but a passing fancy in Myron. He may one day 
reproach me for giving him up — I, who am capable 
of understanding, appreciating and loving him so 
tenderly — of having united him to a delicious, fool- 
ish, wordly child; he so learned, so full of noble 
thoughts and ambitious aspirations! 

“My little Alice, my beloved child, if you knew; 
if you could suspect what thoughts struggle within 
61 


HER SACRIFICE 


me ! Are you really what you seem ? Do all those 
loving words and caresses come from your heart? 
Are you, like your mother, a skillful actress, who 
wins love only to better grasp all the joys of life! 
But what matters, since you possess the all-powerful 
charm, since you have only to appear to be adored? 
Since I, though doubting and suspicious, love you, 
and would weep night and day to spare you a tear, 
would accept perpetual sadness and despair to make 
you happy. 

“It is time to go. No one shall see me, for the 
door of the turret opens almost into the forest. My 
heart throbs wildly. I am going to meet my fiance, 
he who should be my husband ! 

“How sad I feel. Oh, my God, help me ! 

“4:30 P. M. — It is done. All is over — Myron is 
free. And it all took place very simply, as if by 
those few words I were not destroying my happi- 
ness forever. Passionate words and long phrases 
have nothing to do with the real crises in life. 

“My poor head aches dismally, but I cannot rest. 
It is almost a relief to go over the scene by myself. 

“I found Myron nervous and agitated ; he met me 
with outstretched hands. 

“‘You have brought me here to fix the date of 
our wedding day, have you not, Edloe?’ he asked. 

“I feel sure that if I had said ‘Yes/ he would have 
felt almost relieved ; and for an instant 1 was tempt- 
ed to utter ‘Yes/ but remained silent. 

“ ‘You are not well, Edloe/ he added, concernedly ; 
‘you are pale and nervous/ 

“ ‘I slept badly last night. But let us sit down, 
Myron, I have a great deal to say, and we are safe 
from interruption here/ 

“It was warm and sultry, heavy, dark clouds over- 
hung the sky, and notwithstanding the heat, a cold 

62 


HER SACRIFICE 


breath of wind made me shiver now and then. A 
storm was brewing, the ocean was gray, — a dull, mel- 
ancholy gray. 

“Instead of speaking, I gazed far out on the waters 
at the white crested billows that announced a rough 
sea, saying to myself, that when these white points 
should reach the shore, when these panting, hurrying 
waves should dash on the sands, I would say to him : 
'It is all over/ I was cowardly, but also very weary 
— I almost lost my self-control. He took my hand 
gently, affectionately, and I felt that he was looking 
at me, and that he was trying to gaze into my eyes. 
I was still watching the white line of foaming waves 
that rolled nearer and nearer. The breaths of icy 
wind became more frequent. 

“ ‘You are feverish, Edloe/ 

“These words were so full of tenderness, of pity, 
that the tears gushed to my eyes. I was determined 
not to weep before him. I withdrew my hand from 
his clasp and said, calmly: 

“ ‘It is nothing. Fever always accompanies a head- 
ache. But I did not come to speak of my health/ 

“ ‘What can you wish to speak of, if not of our 
approaching marriage?' he said, tenderly. 

“It seemed to me that I would not have the cour- 
age to tell him what I had come to say, unless I did 
so at once. And it was in a voice that sounded 
strangely to my ears that I replied quickly: 

“ ‘That marriage, Myron, shall never take place. 
I cannot be your wife.' 

“A dead silence followed, and I could hear his 
hurried breathing. 

“‘Why?’ he asked, coldly, almost harshly. 

“ ‘Because I was not made to marry. Because I 
love solitude and liberty, and in spite of the affection 
63 


HER SACRIFICE 

I feel for you, I could not entrust that liberty into 
your hands!' 

“ ‘It is not that. Look at me straight in the eyes, 
Edloe. You have never lied! There is something 
else. What is it?' 

“Then, without knowing what I was saying, I cried 
out: 

“ ‘Have pity on me, Myron. I am suffering. I 
suffer for you, for myself, for the pain I shall inflict 
on your mother. Do you not see that if I could con- 
scientiously be your wife, I would say: “Take me, I 
am yours for life"? But I cannot, I assure you, I 
cannot.' 

“ ‘You must have thought of all these things before 
our engagement, for I still persist in calling it an 
engagement. If you have changed your mind since, 
you must have a reason — and I want to know it.' 

“It seemed to me — I may have been wrong — that 
he insisted only to acquit his own conscience, and be- 
cause he was convinced that I would not yield. What 
would happen if I yielded? This thought brought 
back my self-possession. 

“ ‘Remember our agreement,' I said. ‘This mar- 
riage was to take place only if our love became closer 
and more intense with time. But we are now fur- 
ther from each other than we were six years ago. 
This reason appears sufficient. We love, yes, but 
as intimate friends, or brother and sister. That may 
suffice you, but to me it is not enough. I would be 
unhappy without contributing to your happiness. It 
is better to suffer a little now — and I will admit 
Myron, that I am doing this only after a great strug- 
gle — than to live together for years without ever 
being really united. During this time of probation 
our love has decreased instead of augmenting. What 
would it be if we were bound forever? Believe me, 
64 


HER SACRIFICE 


Myron, it is for the best. Let us part good friends, 
without bitterness, without recriminations. Later, 
you will admit that I was right/ 

“And thus I pleaded against myself, and little by 
little he allowed himself to be persuaded, for his 
heart pleaded with me. In a very short time his 
emotion vanished. I had lifted a great weight from 
his heart — or, from his conscience, rather — and he 
was infinitely grateful to me. He, however, con- 
tinued to protest for appearance’s sake. I felt it ; and 
he soon perceived it. I had used only vague for- 
mula’s to explain my change of sentiments, yet he 
was satisfied. But he has a noble and tender nature, 
and he must have understood that, notwithstanding 
my impassibility, I was suffering. 

“ 'You speak of friendship, Edloe/ he said. 'How 
much tenderness, affection and admiration enter 
into this friendship ! I have known you from child- 
hood, and have always found you true and brave ; of 
a goodness almost too perfect, always forgetting your- 
self to think of others. Notwithstanding your seren- 
ity, I know that you are capable of profound en- 
thusiasms, sublime heroisms; and, in spite of all, 
you have retained an adorable simplicity and naivete. 
Alas ! it is romance that stands between us now. You 
want the ideal, the impossible. In this life we must 
content ourselves with mingled sentiments, incom- 
plete, yet very acceptable happiness. I assure you, 
there are many men and women in the world who 
would be satisfied with a marriage such as ours 
might be.’ 

“His voice, which at first had been bitter, was now 
gentle and caressing. The crisis had passed. He 
now only felt the relief that succeeds unpleasant 
emotion.” 

“And I? Ah! well, I still watched the threaten- 

ed 


HER SACRIFICE 


ing white^crested waves, so close now, and vaguely 
pitied the golden sands that would soon be lashed 
by the furious gale. The wind drove the heavy, dark 
clouds over the sky. Suddenly, a vivid streak of 
lightning rent the heavens, and the thunder burst like 
a cannon shot. We both sprang to our feet. 

“ ‘Hurry home, Edloe; you will just have time be- 
fore the rain/ said Myron. 

“ ‘Good-by, Myron/ I murmured. 

“He was much agitated. I believe I was on the 
point of fainting, but my sole thought was to keep 
my self-control and not cry out : ‘It is not true — you 
are blind and will not see. I love you ; I love you, as 
no other woman shall ever love you!' But I was 
silent. Then he bent over me and said, in a tremu- 
lous voice: 

“ ‘Since we are truly parting, let me kiss you, Ed- 
loe, my dear, dear sister/ 

“I raised my pale cheeks to his lips, and shivered 
from head to foot as I felt the kiss. He thought I 
shivered with cold, and said: 

“ ‘Now go quickly. The storm is ready to burst/ 

“While I write, the thunder roars with fury, the 
rain pours in torrents. That fury of the elements 
pleases me, it accords with my feelings. Besides, I 
shall be longer alone. Aunt Louise is afraid of the 
storm and will not venture out until it is over. 

“My God! my God! how I suffer; how unhappy 
I am; how I wish to die! He called me ‘sister/ 
Was it simply a common-place word of affection, or 
was it said with a particular intention? Am I des- 
tined to become his sister later ? Alas ! 

“I have watched the hands of my clock for more 
than an hour, gazing in a sort of stupor. The storm 
is over. I shall return to my lounging-chair. Alice 
will find me as she left me; I shall have slept, 
66 


HER SACRIFICE 

dreamed. What sad slumber ! What a lugubrious 
dream !” 


Alice tip-toed into the room, fearing to awaken her 
sister, who did not move. As she was softly walking 
away, however, Edloe turned and said, gently : 

“Is it you, darling ?” 

“There ! I disturbed you,” she said, with a pout. 
“I am always doing something bad. My best inten- 
tions are always followed by the most deplorable 
results.” 

“You did not disturb me, I was only half asleep. 
Did you have a good time?” 

“Not very. To begin with, that storm made me 
nervous; and then quite a number failed to keep 
their word and did not come. The men especially 
were ‘conspicuous by their absence/ so your wise 
recommendations were superfluous. The captain 
was afraid of a few drops of rain, although at the 
rate he rides that horse it would take him scarcely 
a half-hour to come. Besides he had promised me 
to be there. It will do your heart good to see how 
coldly I shall receive him the next time he calls. 
As to Myron d’Arcy, there is no excuse, for he is a 
neighbor. Dorris assured me he would come, but 
he did not.” 

“So your pretty toilette was a pure loss, my poor 
child !” 

“Oh, you may laugh at your little sister. It at least 
shows that your horrid headache is improving. My 
dress was not a total loss, however, for I subjugated 
the few that were there. But, after all, it was a poor 
harvest.” 

“Alice, Alice!! When will you learn to look at 
life otherwise than as an immense field of pleasure?” 

“Oh, some day. When I am married.” 

67 


HER SACRIFICE 


“Then you will stop being a coquette ?” 

Alice reflected for a moment, then, kneeling be- 
side her sister, replied gravely: “My dear Edloe, 
there is coquetry and coquetry. I believe I shall al- 
ways be greedy of admiration. That is not forbid- 
den, is it? But I share Dorris Store's opinion, one 
should amuse herself while a girl, and that means to 
be courted. Then once married, — will be married 
for good." 

“That is, you will think of your husband and only 
have but one object in life — that is, to make him 
happy and be entirely devoted to him." 

“Yes, something like that. Now, my dear Edloe, 
you are romantic and have exalted, lofty ideas, while 
I, in spite of my giddy manners, am much more 
calm and practical. But I am serious now. When 
I marry, I am sure I shall make a good wife. Are 
you satisfied now?" 

“My dear little Alice, my dear little sister, if you 
knew how I loved you," sobbed Edloe, unable to sus- 
tain her tears. 

“There, you are weeping now. It must be the 
horrible storm or that wretched headache coming on 
again. Sleep now, I shall stop my talking to you !" 


68 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE MURDER. 

The rain poured without ceasing all night and the 
greater part of the next day. The graveled paths 
were turned into torrents, the roads submerged ; 
nothing was heard but the howling wind, the beating 
rain against the windows, and the rustling leaves on 
the branches bowed beneath the gale. The beauti- 
ful, bright summer had suddenly turned to gloom 
and sadness. 

Alice paced up and down the drawing-room, dimly 
lighted by its narrow windows, chafing at being for- 
cibly confined within, and deprived of all the pleas- 
ures that make the country endurable. For a while 
she helped Aunt Louise to assort the delicate shades 
of silk, while chattering, without awaiting answers; 
then she took up a book that immediately bored her, 
and finally welcomed the announcement of breakfast 
with delight. 

Edloe was still suffering, but had made an effort to 
come down, and allowed her sister to pet her and 
play nurse with as much earnestness as she ever 
played at anything. 

After breakfast, Aunt Louise installed herself be- 
hind her frame at the window, as usual, while Edloe 
sank into a deep armchair, sad and silent. The tran- 
quillity of her surroundings became unendurable to 
Alice. She resumed her pacing up and down the 
room, impatiently watching the progress of the 
hours. 


69 


HER SACRIFICE 


“I assure you this is nothing at all, Alice,” ob- 
served Aunt Louise, teasingly. “Wait till autumn 
and winter, when you dare not poke your nose out, 
when the postman can scarcely reach us, and provis- 
ions threaten to run short ; when we almost freeze to 
death in this beautiful chateau.” 

“Don’t calumniate our chateau, aunt,” interrupted 
Edloe, shaking off the painful reverie into which she 
had fallen. “We can keep ourselves very warm and 
comfortable, and we have plently of books, papers 
and periodicals to amuse us during the long evenings, 
Are you cold, Alice?” 

Alice shivered under her pretty white shawl and 
made an affirmative sigh. Edloe immediately touched 
the bell, and soon a roaring fire blazed in the enor- 
mous chimney, brightening up the old room with its 
light. Notwithstanding the hour, it was qirite dark, 
and Mme. Vaudery abandoned her work to seat her- 
self near the fireplace, while Alice, radiant and smil- 
ing, once more installed herself in a pile of cushions 
at her sister’s feet, and extended her hands to the 
fire. 

“This is comfortable, at least,” she cried. “The 
cheerful fire inspires conversation. I love so to chat- 
ter, and you are both so silent and grave that it gives 
me the blues!” 

“Well, my little chatterbox,” laughed Edloe, “we 
ask nothing better than to listen to you ; is it not so, 
aunt?” 

“Yes, on condition that she talks nonsense ; — there 
is nothing so amusing in others,” retorted Aunt 
Louise. 

“Then you shall be served to perfection,” rejoined 
Alice, gaily. 

“I must do you the justice to say you are good- 
natured, at least, Alice.” 


7o 


HER SACRIFICE 


“This cheerful blaze makes me amiable. I was 
getting cross, watching the dismal rain. A grate fire 
always makes me think of my childhood. Mamma 
always loved to see a blaze in the chimney, even in 
summer time ; and I can still see myself crouching in 
a corner while she dressed. I thought her so pretty, 
so very pretty.” 

Alice seldom made any allusion to her past, and 
Edloe had often felt curious to learn something of 
the childhood of this sister whom she had not known 
until she had found her blossoming into womanhood. 
She did not like to question her, and contented her- 
self with the few words that escaped Alice, and gave 
her a glimpse of a somewhat strange existence for a 
child. 

“I am sure she could not be as pretty as you, 
my darling,” said Edloe, toying with a curl of her 
sister's golden hair. 

“Oh ! much prettier, with large, childish blue eyes ; 
at thirty-seven she still played the ingenue, and could 
do it better than anybody, too. She had a way of 
saying a simple little word, without perceptibly rais- 
ing her voice, that brought tears to everybody's eyes. 
I adored mamma, and she was very fond of me, when 
she had time ; but she often forgot me entirely.” 

“What! forgot you? What do you mean?” 

“Oh, she was not wicked, but she had so many 
friends, and went out so much, that she scarcely saw 
me. When she went out to a dinner, she often for- 
got to order dinner for me ; and as the servants were 
frequently changed, they cared little for me. So I 
had to take care of myself, and dined on crackers and 
preserves, when I could find them. One day papa 
unexpectedly returned from a journey and found me 
greedily devouring a biscuit, perched on a cushion I 
had placed on a chair. When I heard his voice I was 
7i 


HER SACRIFICE 


much frightened, and would have tumbled to the 
floor if he had not caught me. I cried bitterly, half 
from fright, half from hunger, and it was only by 
great effort that he succeeded in soothing me. ‘Run 
for your hat, my little Alice/ he said, consolingly, 
‘and we shall dine together at the restaurant/ I was 
not quite sure of what that meant, but I did not hesi- 
tate. We had an excellent dinner and some wine 
that tickled my palate. I believe it was the happiest 
evening of my life. Papa was very amusing and af- 
fectionate, and once I caught him looking at me with 
tears in his eyes. That seemed strange to me, and 
I said, reproachfully, ‘Why, papa, gentlemen never 
cry/ For the first time he then spoke of my sister, 
who would be a mother to me if ever I needed pro- 
tection. After that I had a governess. I did not 
like her very much, but she at least saw that I had 
my dinner every day.” 

“All the same, it was a queer way of bringing up 
a child,” sniffed Aunt Louise. 

“I am afraid I am giving you a false impression 
of my existence in telling these things,” she continued, 
“for I was much loved and petted by everybody, 
especially as I grew older. When I was fifteen, one 
of mamma’s cousins, who was very fond of me, took 
me to the theater one day without telling anybody. 
She played the comic parts and made everybody 
laugh by her funny grimaces and gestures. It was 
very funny, but always the same thing. She took 
me to the green room, where many gentlemen came 
who said many witty things and were the first to 
laugh at their own remarks. I laughed, too, al- 
though I did not always understand. Then, one old 
gentleman told me that when I made my debut I 
should create a .sensation in Paris. 

“ ‘Leave that child alone/ said my cousin ; ‘she is 
72 


HER SACRIFICE 

Miss LaFaucher, and will never be an actress, for she 
is to be a rich heiress some day/ ‘Then why do 
you bring her here?’ retorted the gentleman. They 
all laughed at this and paid no more attention to me. 
But one of the gentlemen was a friend of my guar- 
dian, and the story came to mamma’s ears, and I was 
sent away to school. You see that I was spoilt and 
neglected in turn; a queer way of bringing up a 
child, as Mme. Vaudery says. But it is only since 
I came here that I have known constant affection, 
kindness and devotion. You may judge how grateful 
I am, and how your little sister adores you, Edloe.” 

“My dear little Alice, you will make me weep 
again.” 

“Ah! Indeed no. That would bring back that 
wretched headache again, and I want to see you 
strong, well and brave.” 

“Brave for both?” muttered Mme Vaudery, a little 
sarcastically, although thinking to herself that this 
child knew how to win all hearts to herself. 

At this moment a servant announced that Monsieur 
le Comte wished to see “Mademoiselle” for a mo- 
ment. 

“Show him in here,” replied Edloe. 

“I scarcely dare to come in, Edloe,” said the visi- 
tor, as he appeared on the threshold. “I am covered 
with mud, and wet from head to foot. What ! a fire 
in June — what a good idea on such a day !” 

“Come in, we shall warm and comfort you, Mon- 
sieur,” observed Edloe. “But how came Addie to 
let you come on such a day as this? She is usually 
so prudent.” 

“I came out in spite of her and in spite of myself, 
too, for I might as well confess my little weaknesses. 
Duval’s wife is very ill, and I have just come from 
73 


HER SACRIFICE 


there, and I said to myself: ‘My little Edloe will 
send her some broth and wine/ ” 

“Come, Monsieur/’ said Mme Vaudery, with a 
toss of her head, “make a clear breast of it all. The 
thought of a good roast and some warm wine had 
something to do with your deviation to reach the 
chateau/’ 

“Another of my weaknesses,” he confessed with a 
laugh. “I am quite a gourmand, and Edloe is so 
skillful in preparing hot wine. To tell the truth, I 
am soaked through by this beating rain and I am 
ashamed to see my soutane smoking near the fire.” 

“And your shoulders are wet, too,” cried Alice, 
throwing her white shawl over his shoulders. 

“Mademoiselle Alice,” he protested, “I beg of you 
— your pretty shawl — and besides, it is hardly a 
priestly garment — although I must admit it is com- 
fortable !” 

“Keep it on,” pleaded Aunt Louise, “it becomes 
you very well, and it is as light as venial sin.” 

“Humph !” ejaculated the priest, “he who fears not 
venial sin shall easily fall into mortal sin.” 

“Since we are on such grave subjects,” resumed 
Mme. Vaudery, gaily, “I should like to be enlightened 
on one point. You are good enough to admire my 
embroidery.” 

“Indeed, madame, you are a fairy. That cushion 
you sent me for my prie Dieu is a marvel ; only it is 
too beautiful. I hardly dare kneel on it.” 

“Well, Monsieur Le Comte, I have a friend who 
is not very pious, I am afraid, who takes old church 
vestments and ornaments, cuts out the superb flowers 
and arabesque to applique them on satin or plush, 
and surround them with fantastic stitches — some- 
what similar to mine. Is that what you call a venial 
sin?” 


74 


HER SACRIFICE 


“Sacrilegious! Madame, sacrilegious! As to de- 
ciding whether a thing is a venial or a mortal sin, one 
must first reflect. But where do you find these old 
things you introduce into your magnificent portieres 
and draperies ?” 

“Oh! I hunt up the bric-a-brac shops in Paris. 
They have magnificent brocades and silks that our 
grandmothers wore at court balls.” 

“What a place Paris is !” exclaimed the simple 
country priest, “one can find anything there.” 

Edloe interrupted the conversation, entering with 
the hot wine she had prepared with her own hands, 
and which steamed appetizingly. 

“Let me send word to Addie that you dine with 
us,” she said. “The rain is over, but the roads are 
frightful.” 

“My dear child, she would scold with a vengeance. 
Tears have no effect on the vivacity of that excellent 
woman; on the contrary, she has a flow of words 
that I often envy when I am delivering my Sunday 
sermon. She would reproach me for preferring the 
fare here to the cabbage soup and pudding she an- 
nounced we should have for dinner. Besides, she is 
very inquisitive and I have promised to tell her all 
I should hear about the assassination of that very 
unfortunate young man.” 

“What assassination?” cried the three women to- 
gether. 

“What! you have not heard of it?” 

“No, we have not.” 

“There, there! Early this morning, the body of a' 
young officer was found in the forest near the turn 
of the path that leads to the Fontaine Georgie ! His 
name was Stamer and he was killed by a pistol shot. 
The murder evidently took place yesterday afternoon 
for the young man left home at about two o'clock, 
75 


HER SACRIFICE 


and his horse was found later and brought back 
there. But did you know him?” exclaimed the priest, 
suddenly noticing the consternation his words had 
produced. 

“Yes,” replied Edloe, in tremulous tones, “he was 
a frequent visitor here, and was introduced by 
Myron d’Arcy.” 

“Oh, yes, Myron knew him. As soon as the body 
was found the authorities called on him as a friend 
of the victim. He was out, but came in before they 
left. He seemed greatly shocked, and I understand 
he had an engagement with his friend to meet him at 
the beach to-day or to-morrow, but on account of 
the storm had decided to postpone it. He gave 
them the address of the captain’s brother, the only 
relative he knew of, and with whom the young offi- 
cer had quarreled many years ago.” 

Alice sank back in a chair, white and trembling, 
murmuring : 

“And I who expected him and was angry because 
he failed to keep his word.” 

“Is any one suspected?” asked Edloe. 

“There are all sorts of rumors. The inquest may 
throw some light on the matter. The spot is a de- 
serted one, and the body remained where it had fallen 
until this morning. The murderer had plenty of time 
to make his escape, after rifling the victim’s pockets 
of all his money; but he was very careful to leave 
the watch and ring, as they might compromise him. 
He is far enough by this time, you may be sure. To 
think such a thing should happen in our quiet neigh- 
borhood ! It will give it a bad reputation, and strang- 
ers will avoid it. But why did he not take the main 
road? Then, at least, he would have run no danger 
of being killed, and causing so much uneasiness to 
peaceable people like us.” 

76 


HER SACRIFICE 


“The captain always professed the greatest scorn 
for ordinary roads , ” said Edloe, “and always took the 
shortest way. He was of a violent nature, and met 
a violent death. Poor young man!” 

“Alas !” sighed the good priest. “A sudden death, 
without preparation, is a sad thing. They say death 
must have been instantaneous. The wretch, whoever 
he was, aimed well.” 


77 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE MEETING BETWEEN ALICE AND MYRON IN THE 
GARDEN. 

The disagreeable weather continued for two whole 
weeks, but Alice’s good humor persisted in an as- 
tonishing manner. She embroidered under Mme. 
Vaudery’s tuition, learned to play cards, and even 
read a little during those long, dismal, gloomy days. 

Edloe, on the contrary, seemed to feel the influ- 
ence of the weather She was nervous and some- 
times busied herself with household duties with 
feverish energy; then she would remain motionless 
for hours, making a pretense of reading, but never 
turning a page. Her affection for her sister, how- 
ever, seemed to augment rather than diminish, and 
assumed a passionate character that struck her aunt 
particularly. 

Notwithstanding their forced seclusion, rumors of 
the outside world reached them every day. The 
mysterious murder was the universal topic of con- 
versation through the whole country. The inquest 
had brought no results. A few vagabonds had been 
arrested on suspicion, but were soon released for 
want of proofs. Everybody who had known the 
young officer was questioned, and the Misses La- 
Faucher had also been obliged to submit to a sort of 
examination. It was openly said that the unfortunate 
young man had been madly in love with the younger 
sister, and had declared that he would marry her in 
78 


HER SACRIFICE 

spite of all resistance. Edloe replied for her sister, 
who felt greatly humiliated to hear her coquetries 
publicly discussed, that Captain Stamer had visited 
them as a friend only; that if he had any intentions 
for the future he had made no declaration, and that, 
moreover, his visits at the chateau had been neither 
frequent nor prolonged enough to make them sup- 
pose he aspired to her sister’s hand. 

Myron d’Arcy, on his side, could furnish no in- 
formation of importance. When interrogated, he 
seemed annoyed and ill at ease, and very much bored 
to find himself mixed up in this lugubrious affair. 
One of Mrs. Store’s servants testified that as he was 
clearing the debris of the picnic breakfast, he had 
overheard angry words in a quarrel between the 
Baron d’Arcy and the captain. When Myron was 
questioned on the subject, he admitted that, in fact, 
there had been a slight altercation between himself 
and the murdered man, but it had been of so little 
moment that he had made an engagement to meet 
the captain at the beach on Friday or Saturday. An 
acquaintance of Stamer confirmed this, the captain 
having mentioned the fact to him. Moreover the 
young officer’s violent temper was so well known that 
no one attached much importance to his angry words 
and the quarrel was believed to be of no consequence. 

Then the inquest dragged on. The captain’s broth- 
er claimed the body and took possession of his effects, 
and the papers soon ceased to speak of the affair. 
It seemed evident to all that some tramp had taken 
advantage of the absolute solitude of the spot to 
assassinate and rob the officer. The matter seemed 
destined to be quickly forgotten, as the victim had 
few friends and had lost his parents in his childhood. 
Mme. d’Arcy took advantage of a few hours’ break 
in the storm to call at the chateau. She excused her 
79 


HER SACRIFICE 


son for his apparent neglect of his fair neighbors by 
saying he had resumed his work with great energy 
and rarely left his study. Edloe made no comment. 
Alice, who was hurt and astonished that he could 
live without seeing her, assumed an air of injured 
dignity that struck Mme. d’Arcy as strange. One 
would have thought she was the fiancee and had a 
right to complain of her son’s behavior. 

Suddenly the sky cleared and appeared more ra- 
diant than ever with its bright July sunshine bathing 
the rich green grass, ripening peaches, and swelling 
the still green grapes. 

One morning, Alice took a fancy to enliven the 
austere drawing-room and went in search of the 
beautiful sorb branches, the panish furze that gilded 
the slope of the hillock, the tall ferns and pretty 
digitalis that grew so abundantly in the park. She 
felt very gay and happy on that day, without knowing 
precisely why, simply perhaps because it was so 
good to live under a blue sky and breathe the fresh 
odors of the verdure, still wet with the rain and 
glistening in the bright sunshine. With skirts tucked 
up and an enormous straw hat, she walked on rapid- 
ly, scissors in hand, looking for the brightest and 
most dazzling sorb branches, and singing gaily at the 
top of her voice. Edloe possessed no voice and the 
classical music she played bored this little Parisian 
immensely. The elder sister, on the contrary, lis- 
tened to Alice’s songs in delight, although her reper- 
toire was not very choice, and most of the songs had 
been learned from the cousin who played the comic 
parts at the theater. These made Aunt Louise laugh 
heartily, while the shocked Edloe stopped the bold 
little singer by placing her hand over her lips. 

But on this , bright sunshiny morning it was not 
a concert hall refrain that floated on the pure air; it 
80 


HER SACRIFICE 


was one of Mireille’s sweet romances that Alice par- 
ticularly loved. Suddenly she felt that a pair of 
eyes gazed intently at her; she stopped short, and 
turned quickly. Myron d’Arcy was standing motion- 
less in the path, listening and looking at her admir- 
ingly. She blushed to the roots of her hair, annoyed 
to be caught in morning negligee, with her skirts 
turned up and disordered hair. 

“It is not fair to surprise people like this,” she 
said, with a little pout that soon changed into a 
smile. 

“Why not? Because it is not the regulation visit- 
ing hour?” he replied. “But you must remember that 
we are in the country and not in Paris. My fair 
neighbor Edloe was never angry with me when I 
surprised her in a morning dress. But, then, Edloe 
is not a coquette.” 

“That is her gravest fault,” declared Alice, as she 
clipped the branches right and left. 

“Upon my word! I believe you are right. Sim- 
ple and sincere women are rarely appreciated as they 
should be,” he said, with a bitterness and passion that 
astonished the young girl. Then he added, more 
calmly: “Allow me to assist you. You look deter- 
mined to cut down the whole forest, and it is hard 
work for your little hands.” 

“I have been waiting for you to offer your ser- 
vices,” she observed, laughingly, as she filled his arms 
with her harvest. 

“Have you got enough?” 

“Yes, I am going back now. We can pluck a few 
wild pinks on our way; it will vary the color of my 
bouquets, and besides, I don’t think you are loaded 
enough.” 

“Thank you. Do you impose this hard labor on 

8 ; 


HER SACRIFICE 

me by way of expiation? What crime am I guilty 
of?” 

“You know your crime well !” she said, somewhat 
curtly. 

“Indeed, I assure you, I do not understand you,” 
he said, bewildered. 

“Is it not a crime to keep one waiting in vain? 
Is it not a crime not to have begged humbly for par- 
don at once? Do you know that you have not hon- 
ored us with a visit for almost two weeks ?” 

His smile vanished, for a moment he seemed sad 
and preoccupied. Finally he said, with an effort: 

“I was unavoidably prevented from attending Mrs. 
Store’s reception. Since then, I have been occupied 
by that sad affair. Besides,” and he lowered his 
voice, “I believed Stamer’s tragic death would be a 
great shock to you. But when I heard you singing 
a moment ago, I was completely reassured.” 

Alice detected a something in Myron’s voice that 
was almost a reproach. Her face flushed hotly and 
she stopped abruptly. 

“Let us have an immediate explanation, Monsieur 
d’Arcy,” she said, earnestly. “If I understand you, 
you reproach me with a want of feeling for a sad 
event that should concern me?” 

“Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but Stamer was mad- 
ly in love with you — and it seemed to me — at least I 
thought — that this love was not indifferent to you — ” 

“In other words,” she interrupted, “you believed 
me in love with this handsome captain, and expected 
me to marry him.” 

“So I feared ” 

“I had no such thought. Ah! I know that you 
blame me. Your allusion to coquettish women was 
directed against me, it requires no shrewdness to 
guess it. I will explain myself at once for all. It 
8 2 


HER SACRIFICE 


is very true, I love admiration. When the gardener 
drops his rake to look after me, it pleases me. Cap- 
tain Stamer’s attentions were by no means disagree- 
able to me, I admit it. But I never dreamed I in- 
spired the passion you speak of. I pleased him, and 
he may have counted on a marriage that would have 
been more advantageous to him than to me. When I 
realized that things were going too far and that the 
captain was becoming a violent caprice, I came to a 
sudden determination: I resolved to ask my sister 
to receive him no more. I had no occasion, however, 
to carry out my good intentions, as you know. The 
unfortunate young man’s death gave me a shock, 
mingled with a little pity and horror, but that was 
all.” 

A silence followed. Myron breathed more freely. 
He walked on by her side radiant and with head 
erect. Struck by the change, Alice, as if in spite of 
herself suddenly cried, 

“So you — you were jealous then?” Then, blushing 
and confused, she looked intently at the tips of her 
dainty slippers. 

“Yes,” he murmured, “yes, I was jealous. Absurd, 
was it not? What right had I to be jealous? Do I 
know? Do I ever dare ask myself. All I know is 
that I suffered, that I passed through an abominable 
crisis, during which the whole world was indifferent 
to me, save a vision that I strove to drive away, and 
which unceasingly returned.” 

During this voluntary seclusion of two weeks it 
seemed to Myron that he had lived an eternity. He 
had struggled, accusing himself of folly, of dis- 
loyalty; he had tried in vain to forget the enchan- 
tress. The more Edloe seemed fitted for the wife of 
a serious man, who loved solitude and isolation, the 
more Alice seemed to claim luxury, society and all 

83 


HER SACRIFICE 


the things he detested. But all this was of no avail ; 
he was the victim of that folly which sooner or later 
overtakes the studious man, who has spent his youth 
in the midst of books, instead of in the society of 
women. Only one thing was clear to him : Alice was 
adorable, and he loved her wildly. And in the 
whirlwind of his senseless passion, the sweet image 
of Edloe was nothing but a distant vision, almost ef- 
faced, importunate even. During those long, solitary 
days, while he struggled against himself, his passion 
had probably made more progress than if he had 
lived his normal life. 

They walked on in silence. Alice still seemed to 
be listening in raptures to the voice which had 
ceased to vibrate. At last, very softly, as if it were 
but a sigh, she murmured: “What happiness !” 

Myron dropped his load of flowers, caught her 
hands and forced her to look at him. 

“Can it be true, can it be true! Did you say it 
was a happiness?” he cried, trembling with emotion. 

“Yes,” she whispered, almost inaudibly. 

“My love does not offend you? Do I not fright- 
en you, I, who am so little adapted to please women 
like you, to whom joy and perpetual happiness are as 
necessary as the sunshine to flowers. You do not 
know what a poor, aimless dreamer I am. It was 
only when I saw you that I first realized the joys of 
living. I feel that I am saying incoherent things to 
you. You must find me a sad lover. But it is im- 
possible that you should love me, I have so little to 
offer you ! You, who might be a duchess, a princess 
or anything you wished! Wherever you go, you 
shall be adored, for you were born to be a sovereign. 
Let me hear your voice. It seems to me I am dream- 
ing. Speak, I beg of you !” 

“I love you,” she murmured. 

84 


HER SACRIFICE 


“It seems so incredible. Ah ! I am so happy Y* 

“You pleased me the first few hours I saw you, and 
a few days later I made up my mind I should be 
your wife. How is it you did not guess it from the 
first? You did not even seem to understand. You 
paid more attention to Edloe than to me, although it 
is true that while you talked to her, you watched me. 
If I was a little coquettish with the poor captain, it 
was to make you jealous — you see that I don’t try to 
make myself out better than I am.” 

“You are yourself. That suffices me. Who could 
be unreasonable enough to wish you otherwise?” 

The past existed no longer for him. He forgot 
that he had once dreamed of a calm and tranquil 
happiness with the elder sister. What an empty fu- 
ture it would have been! After all, why should he 
feel any remorse? If he was free to marry this ex- 
quisite creature, it was because Edloe had willed it 
so. She had given him his freedom, and in such a 
manner that he could only bow to her wishes. Why 
should he mourn eternally over a union that he had 
accepted through motives of suitability, of duty al- 
most? Had he not the right to happiness, to life, 
and had not Edloe herself given him that right? 

From the window of her boudoir Edloe saw them 
coming toward the house. Myron, his arms laden 
with flowers, was bending over Alice, talking with 
animation, while Alice, the little chatterbox, was 
silent, her eyes fixed on the ground. Once she raised 
her pretty face and smiled at the young man, and 
there was an expression on it that Edloe had never 
seen. 

The unhappy girl could not repress a moan, as 
she leaned out to obtain a better view of them. 

“Already!” she said, bitterly. “Ah! I never be- 
lieved I could suffer so cruelly.’* 

85 


CHAPTER X. 


THE EVENT OF THE SEASON. 

Edloe proved her courage; she showed herself 
stoical, smiling even. Moreover, in the noisy rejoic- 
ings of this engagement, which was the event of the 
season, the elder sister remained unnoticed, or she 
might have betrayed a little of the sadness that filled 
her heart. 

She expected an explosion of regrets from her old 
friend Mme. d’Arcy, and some embarrassment in 
Myronf but love is such a selfish sentiment that it 
sees, and will see nothing but itself. It seemed as 
if this denouement had been long expected and was 
inevitable. All that preceded this was forgotten, 
relegated among the things of the past, a dead past, 
which everybody was anxious to forget. 

As to Mme. d’Arcy, though she loved Edloe very 
much, she naturally considered her son’s happiness 
pre-eminent. This happiness now depended on a 
union other than she had desired ; she sighed over her 
vanished dream, and smiled at the dawning love. 
From her early girlhood, Edloe had always shown 
an aversion for marriage, and although she had 
once dreamed of overcoming this repugnance, that 
time was past. Evidently she was destined to celi- 
bacy, and Myron was not the man to woo a woman 
against her will. 

Besides, it was time Myron should marry and 
Alice was quite as wealthy as her sister. She was 
86 


HER SACRIFICE 


a little young and giddy, perhaps, and her origin 
was not all it might be* but, after all, she was en- 
tirely separated from her mother's family. Time 
and the duties of matrimony would mature her 
character; nothing would remain of her exuberance 
but a little vivacity, of her coquetry, but a natural 
desire to please. This radiant creature would bright- 
en her son's life, and Alice would be proud of her 
husband. She would aid him in his work, be ambi- 
tious for both. Myron was only a dreamer who 
worked for the mere pleasure of working. But a 
loving wife, who has a well-defined aim, can do a 
great deal toward the advancement of a husband. 

Nevertheless, it was in a tone of gentle reproach 
that the baroness addressed Edloe shortly after the' 
betrothal. 

“Ah! Edloe,'’ she sighed, “I had hoped otherwise. 
I cannot understand why you could not love Myron. 
As you see, all young girls do not disdain happiness 
as you do." 

Edloe made no reply and Myron's mother imme- 
diately went into raptures over the perfection of that 
“ravishing little sister." She was in the mother-in- 
law's period of honeymoon, that which precedes mar- 
riage. 

Mme. Vaudery expressed no surprise when the 
engagement was announced. She was well satisfied 
at the engagement, which would so soon make every- 
thing as it was before the arrival of the “intruder." 
In her delight she was all amiability, and prepared 
to oiler some of her most exquisite embroideries as 
wedding gifts. One day, as she was consulting the 
prospective bride on the shade of the portieres for 
her boudoir, Alice said, mischievously : 

“Your generosity is due to your delight over my 
departure, Aunt Louise. Since my engagement you 
87 


HER SACRIFICE 


have permitted me to call you so a little more and you 
shall consider me as a real niece. That will be on 
the day after my marriage, will it not!” 

With her sister, Alice was even more affectionate 
and caressing than in the past. There was a dif- 
ference, however. She was less dependent, less of 
a child near her; her dignity as a fiancee placed her 
on a level with Edloe. She talked seriously, almost 
with the dignity of a matron who has had experience 
in life and knows the practical side of things. After 
the first raptures, when she had become habituated to 
Myron’s adoration, to his protestations of love, she 
began to busy herself with a thousand things, which 
in an analogous situation would have been entirely 
neglected by Edloe. 

“You understand, Edloe,” she said* “that for the 
last two years I have known just how my money has 
been invested. My guardian, who, though a very 
disagreeable man, is extremely honest, and insisted 
himself on explaining the situation to me. Myron 
and I will have an income of about a hundred thou- 
sand francs a year. One can live nicely on that. 
You see, he pleased me at once, and I skillfully led 
people to talk of him without arousing their sus- 
picions. Thus I learned his methodical habits, the 
esteem everybody professes for him — and, as for the 
rest, your affection for him was sufficient guarantee. 
I had to look out for myself. In spite of your 
twenty-four years you are much more ignorant of 
the world than I am. I realized also that I must get 
married as soon as possible and have a home of my 
own. I know that you are an incomparable sister, 
but you might have tired of me.” 

“Never, never, Alice !” protested Edloe. 

“How good you are to me, Edloe! Sometimes I 


HER SACRIFICE 

am really almost ashamed of myself. But Aunt 
Louise is not of your opinion.” 

“Then,” interrupted Edloe, astonished at this dis- 
play of mercenary motives in that apparently frivo- 
lous nature, “you had planned and arranged it all 
beforehand ? Why did you not speak of it ?” 

“Because — I don’t know just why — I had a vague 
idea that this marriage would not please you. And, 
besides, I was not sure of Myron. Sometimes he 
seemed quite infatuated, then again he avoided me. 
I did not know what to make of it. Perhaps he was 
afraid I was too light-headed to be his wife. It 
must have been that, don’t you think so?” 

“Perhaps,” said Edloe. with an effort. 

“But you know that I am really serious by nature.” 

“I begin to believe so.” 

“How funny you say that ! Would you really wish 
me to be truly frivolous?” 

“I do not know just what I do wish, my little 
Alice. But it seems to me that in the multiplicity of 
your calculations there remains but little room for 
that absolute tyrannical love. But — as you have ap- 
proached me more than once — I am horribly roman- 
tic, old-fashioned, anything you please.” 

“You are mistaken, Edloe,” observed Alice, with 
big, astonished eyes, “my calculations do not re- 
place my love. I love Myron very much.” 

“Better love him without qualification.” 

“What a strange girl you are ! Have no fear, my 
husband shall be happy.” 

Alice had also other preoccupations besides her 
plans for married life. Her trousseau was the sub- 
ject of grave thoughts. She made a short trip to 
Paris with her future mother-in-law, saw the dress- 
makers, ordered toilets of all kinds, which the prem- 
iere of the house was to finish at the chateau. This 

89 


HER SACRIFICE 


interested her even more than the visit to her guar- 
dian, who for the first time in his life showed him- 
self amiable and obliging, so delighted was he to 
remit his responsibilities into the hands of a husband. 
He expressed his regrets at being unable to attend 
the wedding, and his excuses were accepted without 
comment. All they asked was his authorization to 
the union and an account of his guardianship, which 
he gave without delay. 

Then they visited apartments, the most enchanting 
little houses, but Alice would decide nothing before 
her marriage, as they would spend the greater part 
of the winter in Italy, but she wanted to see and 
have time for reflection. 

Mme. d’Arcy returned from the expedition com- 
pletely worn out, but still delighted with her future 
daughter-in-law ; convinced that, in spite of her naive 
airs, she was, very practical and knew full well what 
she wanted. 

In the surrounding chateaux, this marriage which 
was to take place in September, was an inexhaustible 
subject of conversation. A pretty village wedding, 
with the rejoicings given to the peasants, is so 
much more poetic than those great Parisian wed- 
dings. 

The bridesmaids, under pretext of consulting the 
fiancee concerning their toilets, continually filled the 
chateau with the sound of their fresh young voices, 
the rustling of skirts and peals of merry laughter; 
and Myron found it almost impossible to obtain 
a tete-a-tete with Alice, who enjoyed all this bustle 
immensely. 

In the midst of this confusion, Mme. Vaudery con- 
tinued her pretty work undisturbed. 

One day, under pretext of admiring the intricate 
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HER SACRIFICE 

embroidery, Pauline Store leaned over her shoul- 
der and said, quickly: 

“I must speak to you alone, Madame. There are 
too many people here ; propose a walk in the garden.” 

Much perplexed by the serious expression on the 
girl’s pretty face, Mme. Vaudery arose, saying: 

“Yes, Miss Pauline, I love to imitate nature in 
my work. Come with me into the garden, and I 
shall show you the climbing rosebush that served 
me as model for this.” 

She drew the girl’s arm within her own, and they 
left the drawing-room together. 

“Well, what is it?” asked Aunt Louise, as they 
reached the garden. 

“Something strange is going on,” replied Pauline, 
“something you would be the last to hear. I thought 
it my duty to warn you, but really don’t know how 
to begin.” 

“In that case, the best way is to go straight to the 
point.” 

“My mother was much annoyed by our servant’s 
testimony at the inquest, and dismissed him, hoping 
he would leave the neighborhood. But he found 
work in a hotel and says openly that M. d’Arcy is 
Captain Stamer’s murderer.” 

“How absurd !” 

“Yes, but how can we put a stop to an accusation 
which is not formal? If we tried to intimidate this 
man he would claim that he was merely telling a 
story in which he was mixed up as a witness. What 
he merely mentioned at the inquest he now exagger- 
ates and asserts. He speaks of threats, of the words 
“kill and without mercy,” which were repeated more 
than once. A little more and he will swear that M. 
d’Arcy threatened to shoot his old friend like a dog. 

9i 


HER SACRIFICE 

It is the topic of conversation through the whole 
country.” 

“Bah! my child; don’t trouble yourself about it. 
Myron was questioned at the time of the murder, 
and his answers were satisfactory. People will soon 
tire of the affair, and find some new topic of conver- 
sation.” 

“In the meantime, this gossip is going on. Ah ! if 
M. d’Arcy had only attended our reception on that 
ill-fated Thursday!” 

“He excused himself, did he not?” 

“No, and as we teased Alice a great deal on the 
defection of her two admirers, that absence was the 
subject of conversation while Jackson served the tea 
in the garden.” 

“We must question Myron on the way he spent 
that afternoon. But, I repeat it, my dear Pauline, 
it is not worth the while to trouble your head about 
it. I assure you that none of those rumors have 
reached us.” 

“Naturally not; but I cannot say as much for the 
other houses and chateaux in the neighborhood. 
Many of our acquaintances, though they treat these 
rumors with contempt, assure us that the peasants 
believe this absurd story. Moreover, I overheard a 
few words yesterday that sum up the situation.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You remember, Madame, that when we went out 
riding in the afternoon, Alice and her fiance took 
the lead. M. d’Arcy is madly in love and does not 
try to conceal it. This explosion of joy contrasts 
vividly with his gloomy and anxious state while the 
captain was also courting Alice. When we reached 
Riverview, a group of fishermen stopped to look at 
the fiances, nudging each other and laughing. I was 
alone at the time and distinctly heard these words: 

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HER SACRIFICE 


‘Hem ! all the same, if one of us had done it he would 
have been thrown into prison in very short order. 
And look at him now doing his courting without be- 
ing disturbed, and without any more thought of the 
one he sent to rot under the ground, than we would 
give to a tainted fish we throw back into the sea, 
and they call that justice and talk of a republic — ’ 
and another made a threatening gesture which he cut 
short when he saw me. This is why I determined to 
speak to you and ask you if we cannot silence these 
people by some means.” 

“We can do nothing. How can we force a whole 
population to be silent? In a few weeks the newly 
married couple will be far away, and then those cal- 
umnies will naturally cease.” 

“Let us hope so, Madame. But when I ace Alice’s 
happiness and think of the accusations that are made 
openly, it seems to me I again hear our gay laughter 
at the garden party, accompanied by the distant 
rumblings of the thunder.” 

“You are a charming girl, my dear Pauline. But 
I never thought your nationality so well gifted with 
imagination.” 

“That is another of your French prejudices,” 
laughed Pauline. “You see in us only a nation of 
salt pork merchants, while we are, on the contrary, 
a refined race and lovers not only of luxury, but of 
art and poetry.” 

Alice, who had been watching them from the gar- 
den window, ran out into the garden and interrupted 
them. 

“What are you quarreling about?” she asked, 
laughing. 

“Mme. Vaudery will not believe in our artistic 
capacities, and I am indignant.” 

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HER SACRIFICE 


“I should say so, my dear Pauline. Your eyes are 
full of tears, and you are quite agitated.” 

“Well, you know — when one touches on America 
— I get excited.” 


CHAPTER XI. 


CONFIDING HER SECRETS TO HER DIARY. 

The chateau now became almost uninhabitable — 
servants were kept running hither and thither, going 
to the city every day and returning loaded down with 
packages, which were quickly opened by Parisian 
dressmakers, whose pretty works invaded even the 
stately drawing-room, while Myron cried in dismay: 
“Why so much luxury, and what shall we do with 
thirty-five trunks?” 

“That is my department,” laughed Alice. “Men 
know nothing about trousseaus. All they can do is 
acknowledge their absolute ignorance and moan in 
secret, if that is any relief.” 

“I do moan,” sighed Myron. 

“I said fin secret/ ” retorted his fiancee, severely. 
There seemed to be no room for the mistress of the 
chateau. The lovers invaded the whole house and 
had no need of Edloe’s presence. Poor Edloe suffered 
in secret and none even noticed her, excepting Aunt 
Louise, who, from her corner, watched attentively, 
trying to guess the cause of her dear child's sadness 
and silence in the midst of this joy and bustle. Alice 
was satisfied with the smiles of her sister without 
seeing that they were forced. Often Edloe glided 
out of the drawing-room unnoticed, and withdrew 
to the solitude of her boudoir or wandered feverish- 
ly through the avenues of the park. 

Not daring to analyze the state of her poor suffer- 

9$ 


HER SACRIFICE 


in g heart, she made a few entries in her diary. One 
day she wrote the following: 

“September 2. — In six days they willl be married. 
They will leave at once, and then all will be over. 
I wish it were to be to-morrow. Shall I have cour- 
age to go to the end — without betraying myself — or 
will they read what I suffer on my pale, worn face? 
I examined myself in the mirror, and alas ! how 
changed and old I have grown ! I who always seemed 
younger than my age, now look more than thirty; 
and who cares or notices me? My good Aunt Louise 
is troubled! ‘What is the matter, my little Edloe?’ 
she asks. ‘Nothing, dear Aunt/ I reply, ‘a little 
tired, that is all. I am not used to these perpetual 
visits and all this bustle. When we are alone once 
more, as of old, I shall resume my old ways and 
good looks/ ‘The fact is/ grumbles Aunt Louise, 
‘that delicious Alice invades the whole chateau. She 
looks as if jrfie were the mistress of the house and 
kindly permitted us to sit at her table. Are you still 
in love with your sister?’ ‘I believe I love her more 
than ever/ I assure her, ‘and want her to be happy, 
for her faults are on the surface only. If you knew 
how loving and caressing she is when we are alone 
in my boudoir/ ‘Yes, when she has nothing better 
to do/ sniffles my aunt — but she was always unjust 
to Alice. 

“I must admit, however, that she is invading. 
When I proposed inviting a few friends for the sum- 
mer, she said, with a pout: ‘Am I not enough?’ I 
laughed and did not send my invitations. In fact, 
she is quite enough to fill the country with noise, 
gaiety and nonsense. 

“While I write, sadly, oh ! so sadly, the murmur of 
their voices comes to me. They are happy, delicious- 
ly happy. Myron completely forgets his works, his 
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HER SACRIFICE 

ambitions, his future! He loves and that love fills 
his life. And he thought he loved me ! I still trem- 
ble to think that this other love, — the true love, might 
have come after our marriage. Then, all seems for 
the better; I do not complain, and face the long, 
solitary, melancholy years to come without terror. I 
never shall marry, for I could not love again 
since I have loved, since, alas ! — I can say it here 
where no eyes shall ever see it — I still love! And 
more passionately than ever. All I ask is that no 
one shall ever suspect the truth! 

“Outside of this mad love, there exists a curious 
state of uneasiness in Myron. He seems haunted by 
the fear that his happiness will escape him; and he 
wants to hurry the preparations, make the day near- 
er. There is something more than the natural impa- 
tience of a lover. He has more than once spoken 
of the malevolent curiosity which seems attached to 
him, and which he cannot understand. It may be 
the jealousy of the peasants, aroused by the luxury 
of this marriage, which is the event of the season. 
The fact is that, though much loved in the vicinity, 
I also feel something of that uneasiness of which 
Myron speaks. It is something undefinable, but I 
feel it acutely. 

“Myron has still another reason for .wishing a 
speedy departure, and for his anxiety to take his 
wife far from gossiping tongues. For many years 
he was considered as my future husband; and he 
fears that an echo of the truth may reach Alice, 
though assured that neither his mother nor myself 
would reveal it. Yet he trembles lest some word 
may escape us. This has become a veritable mania 
with him, and is increased by a curious sentiment; 
not shame, for he has always acted loyally, but some- 
thing near it. What is most strange is that this half 
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HER SACRIFICE 


shame does not come of having broken off with me, 
but rather that he should ever have thought of mar- 
rying any one but his bewitching Alice. 

“I felt that my face must betray my agony in the 
fitful firelight, and I also felt that Myron’s eyes were 
fixed on me beseechingly. With an effort I brought 
a smile to my quivering lips, and said: 

“ ‘I doubt very much if Myron was ever engaged. 
I know that, since his majority, his mother has been 
dreaming of finding an ideal wife for him. Had she 
found her, it is more than probable that I should have 
been the first informed of the fact, since we are 
such old friends/ 

“ ‘But she must surely have thought of you V ” 

“Ah, the cruel child! — How did I ever summon 
courage to answer calmly? How is it that I did not 
faint before their eyes? I seemed to hear the echo 
of my voice, far, far away as I again forced a smile 
to my lips, murmuring : 

“ ‘It is very probable. But children brought up as 
brother and sister rarely marry/ 

“Evidently satisfied, Alice arose to replace a log 
on the fire. Myron followed to assist her and fur- 
tively pressed my hand. I drew my chair back from 
the firelight, just then tea was brought in, and Myron 
abruptly changed the conversation, saying: ‘Do you 
know that we are of interminable gossip in the 
neighborhood ?’ 

“ ‘Wherever I go, people turn to stare at me, wom- 
en stand on the threshold to follow me with their 
eyes/ 

“ ‘Just what they do with us !’ cried Alice. ‘I did 
not think that the Normans were so curious/ 

“‘It annoys me so/ continued Myron, ‘that the 
other day I turned and asked a peasant why he gazed 
at me so curiously. “On account of your marriage, 
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HER SACRIFICE 


Monsieur,” he replied, “they say it makes you very 

gay ” “Well,” I asked, “does it make you sad 

when you marry ?” “Ah! when we take a wife we 
don’t make such a fuss as the rich people. Besides, 
you were mighty lucky that the captain should be 
killed just in time to leave you a free field.” “His 
death grieved me very much,” I said. The man 
turned away with a mocking laugh. Upon my word, 
for a moment I thought he would accuse me of be- 
ing the murderer.” 

“Thad was just entering with the tray and, through 
awkwardness or agitation, I know not which, the cups 
rattled against each other and he could scarcely lay 
them on the table. When I asked him what was the 
matter, he replied quickly, “Nothing, Mademoiselle, 
nothing — a little dizziness, that is all, I am subject 
to it.’ He was very pale and clutched the furniture 
for support as he went out, the others, who had re- 
marked nothing, continued their conversation around 
the fire-place. As Aunt Louise placed her embroid- 
ery aside to take up the cup of tea, I heard her ask, 
softly : 

“ ‘Myron, why did you not attend Mrs. Store’s 
reception on that Tuesday?’ 

“ ‘Yes!’ cried Alice, 'why did you not come?’ 

“ ‘Because I felt ill, jealous and cross,’ he replied. 

“ ‘Tell us how you spent your time?’ persisted Aunt 
Louise. 

“Myron was visibly ill at ease and looked implor- 
ingly at me; but I could do nothing to help him. 

“ ‘It is such a long time ago,’ he stammered, ‘how 
can I remember? I believe I wandered aimlessly 
through the forest, as I often do when in bad humor.’ 

“ ‘And you jumped through the window,’ laughed 
Alice. 

“ ‘Probably, I don’t remember/ 

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HER SACRIFICE 


“He arose and joined me at the table. I saw that 
his hand trembled and motioned him to sit down, 
while I carried the tea to my aunt, who, it seems to 
me, was looking at Myron in a queer way. 

“ ‘What is it, Aunt?’ I whispered. 

■“‘Nothing, my dear,’ she replied. ‘Only I regret 
that Myron should have so little memory. It must be 
inconvenient in his work as a historian.’ 

“If among the peasantry, the curiosity was excited 
by this approaching marriage — God alone knows why 
— our friends, on the contrary, seem disposed to re- 
joice over it. It is a new phase of the warfare be- 
tween the hut and the chateau. We have accepted 
dinners and fetes of all kinds for miles around. This 
has not been the least of my trials ; I have been forced 
to look happy in the happiness of Alice; to endure 
from many a sort of an expressed pity which is ter- 
ribly painful to me. I am brave enough, but if the 
effort were prolonged my courage would give way. 
There is a limit to human strength. 

“As we had no near relative to walk with 
Alice to the altar, I asked an old friend and 
neighbor, the Marquis de Saint Bartram, to as- 
sume the role of father. Although old and 
retiring, he accepted immediately, and yester- 
day he gave a great dinner in honor of the 
fiancee, to which he invited all the titled celebrities of 
the neighborhood. Our name sounded very plebeian 
in the midst of those sonorous titles, but Alice’s 
beauty threw all the other women in the shade. She 
naturally took precedence, not only i$ her quality of 
fiancee, but by right of conquest, through her grace 
and beauty. And how proud Myron seemed of her ! 

“The Marquis has always been very kind to me, 
treating me with a mixture of courtesy that savors 
of the ancien regime , and of paternal benevolence. 

100 


HER SACRIFICE 

He still remembers that he was a witness to my moth- 
er’s marriage, and takes a great interest in me. 

“ ‘Do you know, my dear Edloe,’ he said, as he 
took a seat beside me after dinner, ‘that I am par- 
ticularly pleased that you should have addressed 
yourself to me on this occasion?’ 

“ ‘You have always been so kind to me, Marquis, 
that I have never hesitated to ask of you a service, 
even at the risk of imposing a task on you,’ I replied. 

“ ‘Offering your arm to a pretty girl can not be 
called a task; I should certainly have preferred to 
lead your mother’s daughter to the altar, Edloe, and 
it sometimes seems to me that she reproaches me in 
spirit. But, let us say no more about it. You have 
adopted Alice as your sister, and it is in that quality 
alone that she is here. But this is not what I started 
to say. My name is old in this country and will im- 
pose silence on ill-disposed persons <’ 

“ ‘What ill-disposed persons ?’ I interrupted, ‘What 
can any one have against us?’ 

“It seems to me that the Marquis got a little mud- 
dled in speaking of the gossip this marriage had 
caused, the criticism on the display of luxury, etc. 
As I looked at him in perplexity, trying to discover 
the real meaning of his confused words, he took me 
affectionately by the hand and abruptly changed the 
subject. 

“ ‘And now, my dear child,’ he resumed, ‘let me 
speak to you as a father ; I will not conceal from you 
that Mme. d’Arcy and myself often spoke together 
of her long-cherished dream of calling you her daugh- 
ter. But you would not have it so* and for the mo- 
ment she seems resigned ’ 

“‘More than resigned, Marquis; she gives Alice 
to her son and keeps me for herself. You see, I am 

IOI 


HER SACRIFICE 

a very agreeable country neighbor — for rainy wea- 
ther/ 

“In spite of myself I am afraid there was a tinge 
of bitterness in what I had intended to say in a ban- 
tering tone. It was with an effort that I stifled a sob, 
and my old friend shook his head sadly and a little 
perplexed. 

“ ‘There is a false ring to those words, Edloe/ he 
said gravely. 'Ah! I wish you would be frank and 
open-hearted as in the past! Listen to me, child, 
you must marry/ 

“‘Never !’ 

“ ‘Yet a woman should marry !’ 

“‘That is what my aunt says; it is a social and 
patriotic duty. But I don’t see the necessity; there 
are always enough who will make the sacrifice/ 

“ T have an excellent match to propose/ 

“ 'My dear Marquis, you must understand that if 
I will not have a husband I will still less accept a 
“match/’ If you knew how much I detest that word ! 
You must resign yourself ; I shall never marry. Call 
it want of courage, pessimism, anything you please 
— but it is insurmountable/ 

“ 'Can it be — can it be — that you have already 
loved and suffered?’ 

“ 'Ah ! I implore you, do not start that legend ; 
there is already enough comment! If I want to be 
an old maid, it is my own business.’ 

“ 'In my days, when a young girl would not marry 
it was because she desired to enter a convent.’ 

“ 'I assure you/ I cried, earnestly, 'that if I felt 
called to enter a religious life, I would not hesitate 
a moment. Unfortunately, I have no such inclina- 
tions/ 

“Ah! what an indescribable torture are all these 
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HER SACRIFICE 


conversations, the pitying glances of people who half 
guessed the truth ! 

“How I wish the sacrifice were already consum- 
mated! Once Myron is my sister’s husband — my 
real brother — all this storm will surely abate. I know 
myself. Until then, each beating of my poor, tor- 
tured heart is a passionate outburst. If he could 
guess that he is loved by two women — if he could 
guess that the one who loves him deeply, tenderly, 
wildly, is not the one, who, in ten days, shall be his 
wife!” 


m 


CHAPTER XIL 


THE DAY OF THE WEDDING* 

The little church, where Myron and Alice were to 
be married, was delightfully situated in a deep hol- 
low traversed by a pretty rippling brook. The pros- 
perous and coquettish village, composed principally 
of rich farms, nestled in the shadow of the chateau 
of Marquis de Saint Bartram, an imposing mass, gray 
and somewhat somber, standing in the midst of mag- 
nificent gardens. 

The church, though so small and simple, was pure 
in form and graceful in proportions. Its portico even 
had pretensions to the Gothic. But its chief beauty 
lay in its adornment of ivy, which, little by little, 
had climbed over the whole edifice. Nowhere did the 
ivy seem more tenacious, more insolent, more flour- 
ishing in its prosperity than in this spot where the 
thousands of birds nestled in its verdure, and where 
the church itself resembled a vast nest well protected 
and sheltered. 

The priest would not have touched this ivy for 
anything in the world ; he was extremely proud of it 
and attached to it with a sort of superstition. The 
Lord had undertaken the decoration of this humble 
village church, and the Lord knew what he was 
doing. No church in the neighborhood could boast 
of anything like it. 

On the morning of the great day, the good priest 
presided in person over the work of the sexton. A 
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HER SACRIFICE 

marriage such as this one was not an every day oc- 
currence, and he must do honor to it. Loads of 
plants and flowers had been sent from the chateau 
for the decoration of the altars; and the cure, with 
his soutane tucked up, dissatisfied with the sexton’s 
work, was distributing enormous bunches of flowers 
and tufts of verdure to the best of his ability. 

“What a pity Edloe could not decorate the altar 
herself !” he said, regretfully. “Women — though 
so inferior in many things, have a veritable genius 
for arranging flowers.” 

This speech of unquestionable ecclesiastical gal- 
lantry was addressed to no one in particular, but ra- 
ther expressed the embarrassment of the priest, who 
did not feel equal to the occasion. It was, however, 
overheard by Dame Addie, his somewhat tyrannical 
housekeeper, who looked down on her master with 
a shade of disdain. 

“Bah! Monsieur le Comte,” she said, severely. 
“The women you love to put back in their place, as 
you say, can take care of themselves. And where 
would you be yourself, I would like to know, if some 
one did not take care of you?” 

“I did not mean to offend you, my good Addie,” 
he apologized, “I was speaking to myself. Those 
flowers don’t seem well arranged somehow or other, 
what do you think of them?” 

“I say they will do well enough for the little atten- 
tion they will attract. Besides, I have a vague pre- 
sentiment that this fine marriage will not take place.” 

The priest trembled, nervously, and stumbled down 
the altar steps. 

“You have heard something, Addie?” he asked, 
tremulously. “Is there anything new ?” 

“I don’t know just what there is, but I am sure 
there is something. The baker has just returned 
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HER SACRIFICE 


from Riverview and says the whole village is aroused, 
that on the beach nothing is spoken of but — you 
know what.” 

“I was in hopes that those abominable calumnies 
had died out a few weeks since. To think that we 
are powerless to stop those rumors that float in the 
air, as powerless as we are to stop the wind itself !” 

“It is very queer that they suspect nothing at the 
chateau,” muttered Addie. “If I were in your place. 
Monsieur ” 

“You would cast gloom and sorrow in the midst 
of their joy. No, I am sure those rumors will die 
out as they came. Why grieve innocent people ? They 
feel that they are surrounded by some secret enmity, 
but do not guess the cause. Mme. Vaudery alone 
seems to know, and she is silent. I will be likewise.” 

But the good man was anxious and ill at ease. He 
walked nervously to and fro. consulted the sky, a 
somewhat obscure sky, with a few patches of blue 
here and there, the calm sky of a September morning. 
He glanced toward the village, which seemed almost 
asleep, the peasants having mostly gone to the fields. 
Nothing, absolutely nothing, yet. 

Then he tried to collect his uneasy thoughts. The 
sermon he had prepared beforehand only half pleased 
him. And he, also, like Edloe over there at the cha- 
teau, helping to dress the bride with her artistic 
hands, repeated to himself : “If only everything 
passes well ! How I wish it were all over !” 

Eleven was striking in the old steeple; the sun, 
piercing through the autumnal fog, shone brightly on 
the nuptial cortege that stopped at the church door 
with rare punctuality. The village no longer slept; 
the peasants had returned from the fields, the women 
and children jostled each other, and the old people 
106 


HER SACRIFICE 


stood on their thresholds, protecting their eyes with 
their bony hands to see better. 

Marthe, the housekeeper, from the depths of her 
carriage, had noticed this unexpected crowd at the 
approach of the village — something of hostility — an 
ill-stifled murmur, scornful glances, had struck her. 
The painful numbness in which she had lived dur- 
ing the past few weeks, which made her act as if in 
a dream, was pierced by an inexpressible anguish. 
At that moment she understood, or rather suspected, 
that these people accused Myron of an abominable 
crime by which he had won Alice from a detested 
rival. This she saw in the malignant glances of the 
envious peasants. 

“Look, Edloe, how the people love us !” exclaimed 
Mme. d’Arcy, who was not of an observing nature; 
“our families have relieved so much misery !” 

This new anxiety had its good effect, however. 
For weeks Edloe had been asking herself how she 
would control her feelings at the supreme moment. 
By the light of her passion, she had discovered hid- 
den recesses of her nature, capacities of violent, fero- 
cious jealousy, of hatred almost, that frightened her. 
She felt like an abominable hypocrite when her 
friends lauded her devotion, her kindness, her gen- 
erosity, her absolute forgetfulness of self. Her af- 
fection for Alice, which still survived, had gone 
through moments of rebellion, almost of aversion, as 
on that memorable Tuesday while the storm was 
gathering, the scorching atmosphere had been sud- 
denly shaken by an icy breath. And sometimes her 
passion for Myron terribly resembled hatred. All 
this, however, she had succeeded in hiding under a 
sort of cold apathy. Would she succeed in hiding it 
until the end ? 

But now she was thinking more of the curious hos- 
107 


HER SACRIFICE 

tility of the peasants than of her personal agony. It 
seemed to her that she was still called upon to pro- 
tect, to prove her courage and firmness. She had 
never been deaf to that cry, and would respond to it 
now. Her true nobility of nature had taken the as- 
cendancy and would henceforth retain it. 

Alice was by no means a pale, timid, trembling 
bride. She was radiant, with happiness, and this hap- 
piness gave extraordinary eclat to her beauty. The 
Marquis, with head erect, advanced to offer her his 
arm, and turned for an instant, before entering the 
church, to cast a haughty glance at the surging 
crowd. The crowd now appeared less hostile. 
Beauty is a sovereign before which all bow as if by 
instinct, and never had these peasants seen a crea- 
ture as marvelously beautiful as this blonde bride with 
dark eyes, who smiled so radiantly at the life that 
opened before her. This vision had more influence 
than the Marquis’ haughty glance. 

The ceremony was short and very simple ; the few 
words pronounced by the good cure came from the 
heart and went straight to the heart. All those who 
had succeeded in entering the church were softened. 
Edloe saw, or rather felt it. From the moment she 
had left home to the end of Mass she had feared, 
she knew not what, but something vague, menacing, 
something that had long been impending, that she had 
seen for the first time that morning. 

But a few hours more and Myron and his bride 
would be far from these vile gossips’ infamous accu- 
sations, which for want of ailment would die out and 
be forgotten. The desire to see Myron in safety, out 
of reach, was so strong within her that she almost 
forgot her pain; she forgot that this marriage was 
being consummated under her eyes, that Myron and 
Alice were exchanging vows that made them hus- 
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HER SACRIFICE 

band and wife, words that united them for life, until 
death, and she suffered much less than she had often 
suffered at the exchange of a glance between them, 
or a too-prolonged pressure of their hands. 

Leaning on her husband’s arm, Alice came out of 
the church radiant as joy itself, smiling on everybody, 
bowing right and left like a little queen, and the 
faces that turned toward her had lost their sneering, 
evil expression. A mother, holding a pretty baby in 
her arms, rubbed against the rich satin dress. Alice 
turned and the baby smiled at her, stretching out 
his little arms. 

“You pretty baby !” exclaimed Alice. “I must kiss 
you. You will bring me good luck !” 

A look of approval greeted this gracious caress 
which won her all mothers’ hearts. The return to 
the chateau was effected without the display of the 
feeling of hostility, and in the midst of the gay laugh- 
ter and bantering of the young people. 

Edloe breathed more freely. It seemed to her 
that the battle was won. 

The vast dining-room, in which the former pro- 
prietors had received their sovereigns, and which 
was now rarely used, had been opened and decorated 
for the occasion. In the center stood an enormous 
table resplendent with rare old plate, crystals and 
flowers. And yet, neither the dazzling decorations, 
the brilliant toilettes of the women, nor even the 
two bright fires in the vast chimney places succeeded 
in removing the gloom. A little of the humidity and 
obscurity of the old unused rooms produced a vague 
impression of sadness, and the laughter of the young 
girls echoed strangely in the immensity of this 
gloomy room. 

Nevertheless, the breakfast dragged on, — and Ed- 
loe, as hostess, was forced to smile and do the 
109 


HER SACRIFICE 


honors; and, as the time passed on, her torture be- 
came unendurable. The bride and groom, seated 
side by side, often exchanged whispered words. Alice, 
a little paler than usual, smiled and seemed perfectly 
happy, while Myron saw and heard no one but her. 

Finally the guests departed; farewells and good 
wishes filled the drawing-rooms with almost dizzy- 
ing noise ; Alice disappeared to change her satin dress 
for a traveling costume; in another quarter of an 
hour all would be over. 

Edloe was taking leave of the Marquis, thanking 
him once more with effusion. As he was about to 
enter his carriage, he looked at her and said, con- 
cernedly : 

“Promise to take care of yourself, my dear child, 
to rest, for you have need of it.” 

“Yes — 1 can rest — now/’ she murmured, with such 
a sad smile that the kind-hearted old man drew her 
suddenly toward him, and kissed her on both cheeks. 

“You know, my little friend.” he said, gravely, 
“that if you ever need me I am, and always will be, 
at your service.” 

Edloe thanked him with an inclination of the 
head, not daring to speak for fear of betraying her- 
self. 

Mme. d’Arcy and Aunt Louise now alone remained 
in the drawing-room. Edloe was hastening away for 
a few moments’ respite before the departure of the 
bridal couple, when a servant announced that a gen- 
tleman wished to see Monsieur Le Baron d’Arcy. 

“You will find him in the blue room, where I had 
his trunk placed,” she said. 

Then, thinking it must be a friend of Myron’s who 
had come too late for the wedding, and was bringing 
his congratulations, she went toward the little parlor 
into which he had been shown. As he passed through 
no 


HER SACRIFICE 


the hall, Myron appeared at the top of the stairway. 

“My brother-in-law will be here in a moment ” 

she began. 

Something in the attitude of the young man who 
bowed respectfully before her, struck Edloe strange- 
ly. Without knowing why, she felt frightened. My- 
ron now entered hurriedly, expecting to find a friend, 
but at the sight of the stranger he stopped and said 
coldly : 

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but do you not 
know that I have just been married and that I leave 
in a few minutes with my wife ” 

The tone in which he said “my wife” rang out like 
a joyous boast. Edloe involuntarily shuddered. The 
stranger, somewhat embarrassed, drew himself up. 

“Pardon me, Monsieur, I am aware of it,” he said, 
gravely. “I came myself to — to ask you a few — 
questions — to avoid scandal as much as possible.” 

“A scandal?” he exclaimed, bewildered. 

Edloe, pale and trembling, came nearer to him. 
She understood. The storm had burst. 

The young man’s only answer was to draw a care- 
fully wrapped package from his pocket. Remov- 
ing the paper, he exhibited a small revolver, a veri- 
table jewel, but rusty and ruined. 

“Do you recognize this, Monsieur?” he asked. 

Myron took the weapon, examined it closely, and 
replied, calmly: 

“Perfectly. It was a gift from my mother, and 
here are my initials. How does it come to be in your 
hands, and in that pretty state?” 

“That revolver was found in the forest near the 
Fountaine de Georgia. It was brought to me by a 
man named Graham, to whom it was given by a 
peasant. It is in this pretty state because since July 
the 27th it has remained in the shrubbery, amidst the 
in 


HER SACRIFICE 

ivy that covers the ground in that spot. The shrub- 
bery being half despoiled of its leaves, the shining 
metal attracted the eye of the passing peasant. It 
was found near the fork of the two paths where the 
body of Captain Stamer was discovered.” 

“How singular! Who could have stolen my re- 
volver? I am at a loss to understand it.” 

He was so perplexed, so far from suspecting the 
truth, that the stranger became impatient. 

“You do not seem to understand, Monsieur,” he 
said, sternly, “I am a representative of the law, and 
I arrest you for murder.” 

Myron looked at him in stupefaction. 

“Why, you must be mad !” he cried, in horror. 

“Are you not aware that for over a month, since 
your betrothal to Miss LaFaucher, the whole coun- 
try has been publicly accusing you of ridding your- 
self of a dangerous- rival ?” 

“Ah ! that was it. But you, Monsieur, you, a man 
of education, of our world, you know that such a 
thing is absurd, that there is no jury stupid enough 
to believe that I, Myron d’Arcy, would conceal my- 
self in a forest and shoot a man whom I could chal- 
lenge to a duel ?” 

“The jury might reply that the captain was a for- 
midable antagonist, that duels with him were reported 
to be unfortunate affairs for the other fellow, that 
you were madly in love, and that mad men will do 
desperate things.” 

“Yes, but you, a man of honor, would not be- 
lieve it possible. The truth is, that I did have a dis- 
cussion with Stamer.” 

“And you threatened him! Unfortunately there 
were witnesses to that discussion.” 

“I challenged him, and we agreed to meet on the 


HER SACRIFICE 

beach at the end of the week that Miss LaFaucher’s 
name might not be mixed in the affair.” 

“I assure you, Monsieur, that I have but one de- 
sire, that is, to o6tain a proof of your innocence — in 
which I am disposed to believe — that I may allow 
you to go. Where, were you on that Tuesday when, 
it appears, Miss LaFaucher expected to meet you 
at a friend’s house?” 

“Where was I ?” stammered Myron, evidently 
troubled, “I cannot tell you.” 

“That is unfortunate,” said the man, drily. 

Edloe laid her hand on Myron’s arm. This sim- 
ple' gesture was full of gentle, yet powerful protec- 
tion ; it was the gesture of a woman who loves, and 
did not escape the eye of the procureur. 

“What my brother-in-law cannot tell, Monsieur,” 
she said, firmly, “I shall tell. At the hour Captain 
Stamer is supposed to have been murdered, Myron 
was in the park with me. We met there by previous 
engagement, as I had grave things to say to him.” 

As she spoke, she gazed straight at the procureur, 
and saw that he did not believe her. 

“Did any one see you going there, Mademoiselle?” 
he asked, respectfully. 

“Unless I am mistaken, no one saw me. I went 
out through the little door of the turret which opens 
almost into the park, and which I alone use. The ser- 
vants rarely pass that way.” 

“It grieves me exceedingly to doubt you, Mademoi- 
selle — but M. d’Arcy is a very old friend of yours, 
it is even said there was once a question of marriage 
between you. He is now your brother-in-law, and 
your affection for your sister is well known. You 
must see that, under these circumstances, your evi- 
dence needs corroboration. This is why I am forced 

to ask for a proof, however slight ” 

i*3 


HER SACRIFICE 


At this moment the vibrating, joyous voice of the 
bride was heard calling, “Myron ! Myron !” 

They looked at each other, dismayed at the thought 
of this joy which would soon be changed into de- 
spair. Alice, in a pretty travelling costume, rushed 
into the room, buttoning the last button of her 
gloves. 

“Well, Monsieur,” she cried, gaily, “must I run 
after you? One would think I was taking you 
away. But, tell me, do I look like a married woman 
in this bonnet ?” 

Then suddenly perceiving the stranger, she turned 
to him and said : 

“I was told that a friend had come at the last mo- 
ment. But, Monsieur, congratulations are always 
in season.” 

But her rapid, nervous babbling stopped abruptly. 
Instinctively she drew near her husbUnd, who en- 
circled her with his arm. It was no longer to her sis- 
ter that she flew for aid and protection. 

“There is something the matter,” she said in alarm. 
“What is it? I have the right to know; I am not a 
child.” 

The officer stepped forward, and stood so as to 
conceal Edloe from her. 

“I am sincerely grieved, madame, to disturb you 
at such a time,” he said, “but it is indispensable that 
I should question M. d’Arcy concerning the murder 
committed last July.” 

“Oh, is that all,” cried Alice, recovering from her 
vague terror. “Then you have found the assassin? 
How fortunate. I have a horror of these mysterious 
crimes. Well, I suppose Myron has answered your 
questions; let us go now. The carriage is waiting 
and we must not miss the train.” 

“Will you allow me to ask you a few questions?” 

114 


HER SACRIFICE 

‘‘Yes, but I warn you I have little to tell.” 

“You expected to meet M. d’Arcy on that day at 
Mrs. Store’s?” 

“Yes, but he did not come.” 

“And your sister did not accompany you?” 

“No, poor Edloe had a sick headache. I left her 
lying, well wrapped, on the couch. On my return I 
found her just as I had left her. She told me she 
had slept.” 

“You do not think she went out while you were 
gone ?” 

“Certainly not. She could hardly raise her head. 
When she has those spells she is perfectly helpless.” 

“And yet,” said Edloe, in a low voice, “I went 
down into the park.” 

“Why did you not mention it?” 

“I did not think of it,” stammered Edloe. 

The young bride looked from one to the other and 
her terror returned, she began to tremble. 

“Myron, tell me — what is it?” she said, implor- 
ingly. “Why do we not go? We are married; we 
are going on our wedding trip, over there, where the 
sun is still warm. It is so cold here, I am shivering.” 

“Do not be alarmed, my darling,” he said, tenderly. 
“There is some misunderstanding which will soon be 
cleared up. I shall be obliged to accompany this 
gentleman and explain certain facts relative to the 
murder.” 

“But, what are you thinking of?” she said, as- 
tounded. “It would be the most ridiculous thing in 
the world. You will answer those questions on our 
return.” 

Unmindful of the presence of two witnesses to this 
scene, she clasped her arms lovingly around her hus- 
band’s neck, as if to keep possession of him and 
tear him from those who would part them. 

ns 


HER SACRIFICE 


“Madame, I am truly sorry,” broke in the officer, 
“but time presses. A revolver, bearing- your hus- 
band’s initials, and which he admits as being his, has 
been found near the spot where Captain Stamer was 
murdered.” 

Alice trembled a little more violently, but her 
arms did not release their hold. 

“What does that prove ?” she asked bravely. “Ed- 
loe and myself have seen how easily one could jump 
from the garden into Myron’s room. Some criminal 
stole his revolver, it is evident. I don’t suppose you 
mean to accuse Myron of such a crime?” 

As no one answered, the truth flashed upon her 
and she uttered a piercing shriek. They were, then, 
taking Myron away as a prisoner. This was the 
dreamed-of wedding trip they were to take together 
through Italy, the land of lovers. 

Myron gently disengaged the detaining arms of 
his young wife and turned to Edloe, saying implor- 
ingly : 

“Take her, Edloe; take good care of my poor little 
wife.” 

For herself, for Edloe whose distressed looking 
face betrayed a thousand times more than the fright- 
ened face of the pretty young bride, he had not 
one word of consolation. 

“You will explain to my mother and console her,” 
he added, simply. “It will be a matter of a few days 
only. I am ready, Monsieur.” 

“But you shall not go, I will not let you,” shrieked 
Alice, simply. 

“It will be a matter of a few days only. I am 
ready, Monsieur.” 

Edloe was obliged to care for the girl bride who 
sank on the sofa in hysterics, console the distracted 
mother who would listen to no explanations, and for- 
116 


HER SACRIFICE 

get her own pain until some hours later, when she 
found leisure to withdraw to her own rook, leaving 
her exhausted sister sleeping calmly like a child after 
a nervous crisis. 

To save Myron she had acknowledged their ren- 
dezvous, which he even more than herself was anx- 
ious to keep a secret. And she had not been be- 
lieved by the officer. She had never been doubted in 
her life. 

Where would she find any one that had seen them 
in that retired place where she had met Myron, for 
the place was always solitary. Ah. how often when 
trying to do good, we commit imprudences more re- 
doubtable — than crimes. If Myron had attended the 
reception on that day no one would have dreamed 
of suspecting him. 

She paced nervously up and down the room, unable 
to rest, not even thinking of finding oblivion in sleep. 
Her eyes mechanically wandered to her secretary, 
and she remembered writing her sufferings in her 
diary. 

Suddenly she stopped as if turned to marble and 
clutched a chair to keep from falling. The officer's 
words rang through her ears. A proof, however, 
was there, locked in her secretary. 

Kneeling on her knees, she buried her face in her 
hands, repeating wildly: “No, no, my God. I can- 
not; I cannot/' 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE QUARREL BETWEEN THE SISTERS. 

Silence and despair succeeded joy and happiness 
at the chateau. Alice’s grief was a curious mixture 
of secret anger and nervous irritation, and she shut 
herself in her room, refusing to eat, talk or be com- 
forted. Frightened at the idea of returning to her 
home alone, Mme. d’Arcy still remained there, un- 
able to act or do anything but weep and pray. In the 
first hour of their trouble, Edloe had gone to her old 
friend, the Marquis, who received her with out- 
stretched arms and eyes full of sympathy. 

“Yes, my dear Marquis, I know you are sorry for 
us,” she cried, sadly, “but we need something more 
than pity. You told me to come to you in my trou- 
ble, and I have come. We are nothing but helpless 
women, and you must come to our assistance. Act 
for us, defend poor Myron’s honor! We must — I 
shall — save him!” 

“Don’t be alarmed, dear child. No jury would 
condemn him on mere village gossip and the finding 
of a pistol. If he were guilty, his first thought would 
have been to clean the revolver and replace it in its 
customary place.” 

“The case may be dismissed. But if the real 
criminal is not found in time, or” — here her voice 
faltered — “or if some irrefutable proof of his inno- 
cence is not produced, he will always remain under 
the ban of this monstrous accusation. Many people 
118 


HER SACRIFICE 


will shrug their shoulders, muttering, ‘Who knows?’ 
and this must not be. Myron must come out of this 
trial free from all suspicion. He has before him a 
beautiful life of useful work and happiness, and that 
life must not be saddened, wrecked, at its opening.” 

“I will leave for Paris in an hour,” said the Mar- 
quis, looking at his watch. “I shall see a lawyer well 
versed in such matters, and shall obtain permission 
to allow Mme. d’Arcy and Alice to visit Myron. Is 
that what you wished me to do?” 

“Yes. And above all, let all possible means be 
used to find the guilty man. I need not add that no 
expense should be spared.” 

“I will not conceal from you, Edloe, that I fear 
the preliminary examination will not throw much 
light on the matter. Researches were made at the 
time of the murder, but without result. The crime 
was not discovered until twenty-four hours after it 
was committed. Many ships sail every day not far 
from here. The murderer was well provided with 
money, since he robbed his victim, and we might as 
well search for a needle in a bundle of straw. No, 
my dear child, we must place our hopes in the skill 
of our lawyer and the irreproachable antecedents of 
your brother-in-law.” 

Edloe left the Marquis, who had barely time to 
catch the train. She had done all that she could, and 
all that remained now was to wait and impart sofflie 
of her own courage to those who depended on her. 
Oh, if she could only act and forget, if only for an 
instant, the sacrifice she might be called upon to 
make! 

She did not dare open her diary ; she did not dare 
recall what she had written. She knew, however, 
that in the abandon of her absolute security she had 
related her struggles, her most sacred thoughts, hei 
119 


HER SACRIFICE 

love, her sad love, which she had always concealed 
with so much care, and which, alas! was written 
there between two sobs. She, whose only aim had 
been to conceal her secret ! 

And this sad secret would become the prey of a 
public ever greedy for new sensations ; would be laid 
bare to the curiosity of all. Alice would know the 
truth, and Myron would learn that she had loved 
him ! No, no, it could not be ! She could never con- 
sent to it. The soul had its modesty as well as the 
body, and she could not lay it bare, not even to save 
a beloved one. 

But she tried to escape from these thoughts. The 
murderer would be found; no money would be 
spared to discover him. Money spent lavishly some- 
times achieved astonishing results. The Marquis had 
promised to see what could be done. 

The affair attracted a great deal of attention. Not 
only because the accused belonged to an aristocratic 
family, a man already renowned for his works, but 
the circumstances of his arrest added much piquancy 
to the story. 

The newspapers related the affair in their own 
way. It was known that the young wife was the 
daughter of an actress who had long been the delight 
of elegant Paris. Many anecdotes, more or less 
true, were turned into sensational articles. The vic- 
tim’s brother suddenly became an important person- 
age. A portrait of him was reproduced, which bore 
but little resemblance, but which was, nevertheless, 
very pathetic, representing him as weeping over 
this younger brother, vowing vengeance and calling 
loudly for justice. M. Stamer ended by entering 
into the role with which he was invested, and per- 
suading himself that this apathy was only feigned, 
and that he had suspected Myron at the inquest. 

120 


HER SACRIFICE 

Few newspapers were received at the chateau, and 
Edloe would like to have suppressed them all; but 
Alice, on the contrary, sent for them in quantity, read 
everything and worked herself into an indescribable 
state of rage. 

Then, when the excitement over the matter had 
somewhat died out, while awaiting the trial, the 
silence seemed still more unbearable. She com- 
plained of not knowng what was going on, and, in 
spite of his zeal, accused the Marquis of accomplish- 
ing nothing. 

And in this small circle, composed of four women 
— for Mme d’Arcy, though she announced her de- 
parture every day, still remained at the chateau — 
nothing was spoken of but the disaster. Friends had 
offered their services and sympathy; and by dint of 
talking and turning this sad story over, they finally 
became used to it, and no longer shrank from a 
glance, or the hearing of an awkward allusion, or 
a word of pity. Little by little, they resumed their 
old habits, while still awaiting the permission to visit 
the prisoner. 

Then, one by one, the summer neighbors left for 
their city homes ; the autumn came, cold and sad, and 
isolation began to be felt. 

One day, not long after the arrest, Alice, who had 
been contemplating a piece of embroidery in silence, 
suddenly looked up and said: 

“Edloe, I have never understood why you told the 
officer that you had gone down into the park on the 
day of the murder, when I left you so ill.” 

Edloe shuddered. She had long expected these 
words, but had finally come to the conclusion that in 
the violent emotion she had experienced, Alice had 
forgotten an incident which she could not under- 
stand. If called upon, however, she had decided to 
121 


HER SACRIFICE 


tell the truth, or at least a part of the truth, since it 
must be revealed some day. 

“I did go down,” she answered, gravely, after a 
moment of silence. 

“What difference did it make to the officer whether 
you went or not?” insisted Alice. 

Edloe had become so pale that the three women 
looked at her in consternation. 

“Listen, Alice,” she faltered, “I did not want to tell 
you of — this meeting — for I feared that you might 
misconstrue this simple action. Like all our friends, 
I had remarked Myron's significant attention to- 
ward you, and I wanted to question him. I felt as 
if I were entrusted with a sacred trust, and wanted 
to play the role of a loving mother. I had given a 
rendezvous to Myron in the park. At the time the 
crime was committed, we were both seated at the 
foot of the stone cross.” 

“Then — why did they arrest Myron since you 
said?” — stammered Alice, as she arose agitatedly. 

“The officer did not believe my word, and you 
innocently confirmed him in the conviction that I 
had lied to save Myron.” 

“And you had lied!” she hissed, flushing angrily. 

“I spoke the truth,” replied Edloe, simply. 

Unable to control her fury, indifferent to the 
wounds she inflicted, Alice cried violently : 

“Then you are the cause of all my troubles ! Ah ! 
Don’t speak to me of people who meddle in other 
people’s affairs. I had no need of your aid. I al- 
ways guarded my own bark alone. If you had 
minded your business, Myron would have met me at 
Mrs. Store’s reception; he would have been seen 
there by all, and no one would think of accusing him 
of that murder. And I would not be unhappy in the 
122 


HER SACRIFICE 

ridiculous situation of being married and without a 
husband ” 

“Alice!” protested Edloe, painfully. 

“It is all true,” she continued, heedlessly. “When 
I was a child I was taken to see a play in which a 
marriage had been declared void, on account of I 
know not what. In the next act, the bride, still ap- 
peared in her white dress, but in the midst of the 
orange blossoms could be seen small green oranges, 
others almost ripe, and that made people laugh.” 

“They took you to see pretty things.” muttered 
Aunt Louise. 

“Well,” went on Alice, more and more excitedly, 
“every morning I search among my orange blossoms 
to find the little green oranges — that always put me 
into such a frenzy, that I put them in the fire yester- 
day. Here the servants call me Mademoiselle Alice 
more than half the time, the peasants stare at me and 
I repeat it — my position is ridiculous and unbear- 
able !” 

Once more, in the silence that followed this out- 
burst, Aunt Louise's voice was heard murmuring: 

“This time the knot has broken the needle short.” 

“My poor little Alice,” said Edloe, very gently, 
“when you recover your composure, you will regret 
your violence ; you will realize that it is horribly 
cruel to have been the involuntary cause of a fright- 
ful scene — that it renders the days painful and the 
nights atrocious.” 

“Oh! Edloe,” cried Mme. d’Arcy, thinking only 
of her son, “why did you not mention it at the time? 
Why did you conceal it, so that now your word does 
not suffice to save my child?” 

“Why? Oh, why?” repeated Alice. “Who knows 
but all this mystery conceals a secret sentiment ? In 
the neighborhood — I have been told — it was expected 
123 


HER SACRIFICE 

that Myron would marry Edloe — that is when she 
was younger.” 

“I have not deserved your cruel words, Alice, and 
I will not suffer them,” cried Edloe, indignantly, as 
she arose, pale and trembling, unable to conceal all 
that she suffered. 

“I beg your pardon, Edloe,” stammered Alice, 
somewhat abashed, “but if you knew how unhappy 
I am.” 

“Poor child,” said Edloe, kissing her sister affec- 
tionately, “I suffer as much for you as I do for my- 
own agony.” 

After this explosion of unjust recriminations there 
was a profound silence, then they tried to speak of 
something else, but did not succeed. Finally Mme. 
d’Arcy looked up and said : 

“I shall leave for home this afternoon, where my 
presence is necessary. As the solitude frightens me, 
I would be pleased to have Alice accompany me. She 
can take possession of the apartments set aside for 
her, where she will be in her own little kingdom, 
in her husband’s home. And I shall see, my dear 
child,” she added, with a faint smile, “that you are 
never called ‘Mademoiselle/ Edloe will not remain 
alone, since for many years her aunt has acted as 
mother to her ; and besides, she is so kind, so gener- 
ous, that she will not refuse to lend me her little 
sister.” 

This solution brought relief. Alice, like a spoiled, 
wilful child, after her paroxysm of anger was over, 
forgot its violence, and tried to make others forget 
it also by being caressing and affectionate. But she 
was, nevertheless, delighted at the proposed change. 

When the sound of the carriage wheels had died 
away in the distance, Edloe seated herself on a stool, 
and laid her weary head on her aunt’s lap, as she 
124 


HER SACRIFICE 


had often done when a child. The silence of the 
large drawing-room seemed so restful, and the gen- 
tle caresses of Mme. Vaudery’s plump hand com- 
forted her. She could now speak or be silent, as she 
wished; she was no longer constrained to exertion. 

“My poor little Edloe,” murmured Aunt Louise, 
very softly, “and I did not understand. You loved 
him, and you gave him to your sister.” 

Edloe had not the strength to protest — and she did 
not say so. She wanted to weep, but she had no more 
tears. 

The motherly caresses, the whispered words of 
affection, calmed and soothed her. Suddenly, as if 
in spite of herself, Aunt Louise cried out : 

“Did I not tell you that misfortune would enter 
this house with that girl?” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


HER DUTY. 

The day fixed for the trial was approaching, and 
the murderer was still undiscovered. Mme. d’Arcy 
and Alice had been admitted to see the prisoner and 
returned from their visit somewhat reassured and 
hopeful. Myron seemed so sure of the result, spoke 
so definitely of their trip to Italy, fixing the date im- 
mediately after the trial, that he inspired confidence 
in them both. He had a long interview with his 
lawyer, a man selected . for his convincing eloquence, 
whom the Marquis had recommended. The lawyer 
had no doubt of an acquittal. 

In the meantime Myron worked ardently on his 
historical work. He had completed the first chap- 
ter, a chapter of general observations which had re- 
quired long and minute researches. 

The weather had become abominable, and visits 
between the chateau and its neighbors were rare, the 
intercourse between them being almost restricted to 
short notes which brought snatches of news to the two 
secluded women. There was a visible straint between 
the two sisters when they met. The long, intimate 
chats, which had been such a source of pleasure to 
both, were no longer possible. They nevertheless 
still appeared very affectionate toward each other, 
and Alice exerted her old coquetry to regain her lost 
grounds, for she could not exist without the love of 
those who surrounded her She had now recovered 
126 


HER SACRIFICE 


her gaiety and high spirits ; there was such a craving 
of life and joy in her nature, that sadness and de- 
spair could not long survive. Gaiety after all is more 
a matter of temperament than of circumstances. The 
first time Edloe heard the merry laugh she shud- 
dered, it seemed to her that the echo resounded with- 
in the prison walls over there. 

Mme. Vaudery had entirely resumed her former 
antipathy. “Humph,” she would often mutter, “she 
was very sweet as long as she could take advantage of 
the affection she knew well how to inspire. But 
now she has no further need of it. She has robbed 
us of the Husband she desired, and we are almost 
forgotten. Of course she wants to keep a loop-hole 
for herself, for, as neighbors and relatives, we may, 
after all, be of some use. It would not be good pol- 
icy to quarrel; but as for intimacy, real friendship, 
ah! as to that, it is passed forever. And to think 
that Edloe suffers from her neglect, that she loves 
her — with that exaggerated love she bestowed on 
even her most disgraceful looking dolls in her child- 
hood. If the sacrifice were to be gone over again, 
she would not shrink from it; if a still more painful 
sacrifice were imposed on her she would accept it.” 

Aunt Louise little suspected how true a prophet 
she was. She never again referred to the secret she 
had guessed, and Edloe gave her no encouragement 
to speak of it, as the least allusion to it caused her 
atrocious suffering. 

In spite of all, Edloe still hoped. The assassin 
.would surely be discovered in time, and her painful 
sacrifice rendered unnecessary. Many promising 
clues were followed, but all ended in disappointment. 
Everybody, even those who had been most hostile 
to Myron, began to believe in this mysterious crimi- 
nal, and hoped that chance might lead to his discov- 
127 


HER SACRIFICE 

ery. A criminal who escapes detention usually be- 
comes bolder and does not stop at his first attempt; 
a second crime often leads to the discovery of the 
first. 

Thanks to her friend, the old Marquis, Edloe was 
kept fully informed of the divers phases and steps 
undertaken in the case. At each new clew she felt 
assured of success, and at each new deception she 
sank back heavily into her grief. Her health began 
to suffer seriously from these terrible agitations and 
her poor, pale features presented a vivid contrast with 
the fresh, rosy face of Alice, who, after the first 
shock, had quickly regained her appetite, and was 
very busy making plans for the promised trip to 
Italy. 

At last the day preceding the trial dawned. No 
new discovery had been made, and again fickle pub- 
lic opinion had turned hostile to the accused, the 
bearer of an aristocratic name. 

A sensation. A sensational Parisian newspaper, 
celebrated for its violence against all accused persons, 
published a very remarkable resume of the Stamer- 
d’Arcy affair, which was a veritable and overwhelm- 
ing condemnation. The prejudiced writer gave a 
host of details concerning the youth of the two for- 
mer friends, their quarrels at college, and the antipa- 
thy of their natures ; he dwelt at length on the rivalry 
of the two men who loved the same woman, a rivalry 
which, from the very first day, had assumed an ex- 
traordinarily violent and passionate character. There 
was also a vague allusion to the Captain's well-known 
skill as a duellist and to Myron d’Arcy’s studious and 
sedentary life, which made him incontestably inferior 
to his adversary in the manipulation of arms. 

All this was so forcibly told that the jury called 
upon to pass judgment on the accused could have no 
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HER SACRIFICE 

"doubt tbat Myron d’Arcy was the murderer; that if 
anyone asserted his innocence, it was only because 
influenced by his great name and fortune. 

This article threw Edloe into state of the wildest 
consternation and affright. 

# Early the next morning she was to leave for the 
city where she had been summoned as a witness. The 
mother and the young wife of the accused had been 
spared this torture; furthermore, they had nothing 
to tell that was not already known. 

The day was bitterly cold, but Edloe was deter- 
mined to see her adviser, the Marquis, whom she 
found at home, detained at the house by an attack of 
gout. 

“I know all, my child, I have read the article,” he 
said, sympathizingly, as she entered. 

‘‘What is to be done?” she asked sadly. 

“There is nothing to be done. M. Stamer is mov- 
ing heaven and earth to obtain what he calls justice; 
he had many friends among the newspaper men. It 
seems that Myron was foolish enough to treat him 
haughtily at the time of the inquest, and now this 
man thinks it his sacred duty to leave no stone un- 
turned to obtain your brother-in-law’s condemnation. 
He is a powerful adversary and we have relied too 
much on the insufficiency of the proof against Myron. 
The change in public opinion in our favor in this 
vicinity reassured us ; we supposed this relenting was 
general, but we were mistaken. However, I have 
the greatest confidence in our lawyer, and I am sure 
that his speech will be a masterpiece.” 

“And nothing has been discovered?” 

“Absolutely nothing. You still cling to that hope, 
my dear Edloe; but, as you see, we are now on the 
eve of the trial, and we have achieved nothing in that 
direction.” 


129 


HER SACRIFICE 

“But we have seen instances where the guilty per- 
son gave himself up at the last moment to save an 
innocent man.” 

“Yes, in Victor Hugo’s works, but not in real life. 
Do you believe that a miserable wretch who would 
conceal himself in the forest and shoot his victim 
from behind would be capable of such heroic abnega- 
tion? But I am not alarmed. An accusation resting 
on such weak proofs can be easily overthrown. Cheer 
up, my dear Edloe. Go home and rest quietly, for 
to-morrow will be a terrible day for you.” 

“Terrible, indeed,” murmured the poor girl. 

“And I will not be able to accompany you, for this 
accursed gout keeps me a prisoner.” 

Edloe did not reply ; she was glad to go alone, and 
had resisted her aunt’s pleadings to accompany her. 

“Whether he be acquitted or not, he will remain 
under the odium of this monstrous accusation,” she 
said with a sigh. 

“Oh, as to that,” said the Marquis, carelessly, “My- 
ron will travel for a time and with us such things 
are soon forgotten.” 

“You have been very kind to me, and I shall never 
forget it,” said Edloe, as she arose wearily to go. 

The old man took her hand in his and pressed it 
affectionately. 

“Courage, Edloe, courage,” he said. “You will at 
least be spared the curiosity of the other witnesses. 
You have inspired great respect and compassion, and 
I have succeeded in obtaining permission for you to 
await your turn in the little ante-chamber next to the 
court room.” 

Edloe thanked him mechanically. She was indif- 
ferent to all this. In the obsession of her fixed idea, 
all trifling troubles and vexations were forgotten. 

As she came out, the cold, chilly wind made her 
130 


HER SACRIFICE 

shiver and she regretted having come, for what 
would happen if she were to be ill? 

Notwithstanding her moral and physical suffering, 
she was struck by the beauty of the country at that 
moment. The winer sun was suddenly emerged 
from the clouds and was casting its dazzling rays 
through the frosty branches of the trees. It was an 
enchanting sight. The village was enveloped in 
death-like stillness; not a sound disturbed the icy 
silence. And above the sadness of the frozen earth, 
the sun in its sudden brightness spoke of joy and 
hope. 

The door of the church stood open, and Edloe en- 
tered to rest, fearing her strength would give away 
before she reached home. 

The profound peace and silence of the frozen coun- 
try seemed even more profound in this somber little 
chapel, wherein the small sanctuary lamp glistened 
like a star. Edloe knelt down and tried to pray, but 
the words would not come. 

The horror of the sacrifice, now become indispens- 
able, appeared to her so clearly that she was over- 
whelmed, and the numbness of death came over her. 

She realized that, until now, she had never really 
believed that this sacrifice was true. She had clung 
to the hope that something would happen — she knew 
not what — but that something would happen in time 
to save her ; that her unhappy love, the plaintive cries 
of her heart, would not be unveiled to the world ; that 
her conduct, her sacrifice, her affection for her sis- 
ter, would not be commented on, criticized, and above 
all, revealed to Myron. 

More than once she had feverishly arisen in the 
night, determined to burn the diary. That destroyed, 
she could only be silent. No one suspected its exist- 
ence. She would swear to the truth, that she had 
131 


HER SACRIFICE 


given rendezvous to Myron in the park, and that they 
were there at the time of the murder. Even if her 
words were doubted, her evidence would have some 
weight. She was fully aware that she would com- 
promise her reputation by her testimony. People 
would ask, as Alice had done, “Why all this mystery ? 
There is something beneath.” 

Yet she had not burned the book; it still existed. 
She would make use of it. But the struggle with 
herself was terrible. 

She had forgotten where she was, why she had en- 
tered, giving herself up entirely to the struggle wag- 
ing within her. 

A hand touched her lightly on the shoulder. It 
was the cure who had stood observing her from a 
distance. 

“You seem very unhappy, my poor Edloe,” he said 
gently. 

“Yes, Monsieur, very unhappy.” 

As he raised her face, he was struck by its hag- 
gard expression. 

“Confide in me,” he said, kindly, “it will bring you 
relief. It is not only anxiety that tortures you. 
There is something else, I am sure of it; and it is 
the sweetest privilege of my holy calling to console 
the afflicted.” 

“You can do nothing for me,” said the girl, shak- 
ing her head sadly, “I cannot speak. I have a duty 
to accomplish, and I ask myself if I shall accomplish 
it.” 

Whatever it may be, you will do your duty to the 
end, for I know you,” he replied, gravely. 

“I do not know if you know me. I am not sure 
that I know myself. I feel capable of wicked, and 
what is worse, of cowardly things.” 

“I have no fear for you, my child. It is not as a 
132 


HER SACRIFICE 

priest that I speak to you, but as an old friend. There 
comes a moment to all, to ,the old man full of weak- 
ness like me, to the beautiful young girl, pure and 
beautiful as you are, when we find ourselves called 
upon to perform some heroic action; whether that 
heroism is concealed in our hearts, or it bursts forth 
before the eyes of all, heroism is always heroism. 
When we feel ourselves weaken, there is always help 
at hand. Do not doubt it, Edloe, for I have never 
doubted it.” 

She made no reply, and he walked softly away. 
When she again raised her head, she saw him kneel- 
ing with his white head bowed down, motionless, 
under the flickering light of the lamp. 

He was but a simple country priest, a kind- 
hearted old man, who only asked to go on his way 
in peace with himself and his neighbor. But his soul 
was strong in faith, and he was praying fervently 
for her. 

Then it seemed to her that all that had amassed 
of rebellion, harshness, bitterness, within her was 
melting away, that a weight had been lifted from her 
heart. She suffered less; a sort of peace had come 
to her in the midst of her anguish. She wept softly; 
she who had been unable to weep for so long. 

When she arose, she trembled no longer. She 
went out into the bitter cold of the wintry afternoon, 
fortified, almost serene. The bright sun was disap- 
pearing in the horizon ; and it seemed to her that its 
last rays were for her, that they penetrated into her 
heart and filled it with courage. 


133 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE TRIAL AND THE RESULT. 

This little town was almost proud of the celebrated 
trial that was to take place in its court-rooms. Strang- 
ers often came to visit the old churches and the Ab- 
bey during the bathing season, but the greater part 
of the year the town slept as peacefully as a provincial 
village. 

For the last two months, the murder had been 
the sole topic of conversation. Young girls, and 
young women especially, felt a great interest in the 
poor little bride, so cruelly stricken in the height of 
her happiness, at the moment she was leaving for 
her wedding trip. It was known that Myron was 
working as calmly in his cell as if he were in his 
own study. In this, some saw the security of inno- 
cence, while others pronounced it the cynicism of a 
man assured beforehand that he was not one of 
those whom a jury condemn. 

The court-room was filled to overflowing; society 
rushed in with as much zeal as if to witness the 
representation of a sensational drama. The magis- 
trates, the lawyers in their gowns, the twelve jury- 
men, the whole imposing paraphernalia of justice 
failed to impress the gay assemblage. 

Myron d’Arcy was calm, but very pale; he was 
much emaciated, and dark rings encircled his eyes. 
He answered all questions addressed to him in a 
clear, firm voice; but the interrogatory brought out 
i34 


HER SACRIFICE 


nothing new. He merely repeated what he had said 
the day following the crime, nothing more. When 
the president, however, asked him how he had spent 
the afternoon of June 27th, there was a shade of 
hesitation in his reply, which did not escape any one. 

“I was feeling ill and went out for a walk,” he 
said. 

“In what direction did you go?” 

“In the direction of the Cote-Boisee.” 

“And no one saw you go out?” 

“I believe not, Monsieur. The plan of the villa is 
well known, since it was examined on the day of my 
arrest. The window in my study is so low that I 
usually jump through it into the garden, rather than 
go through the house to reach the door. Neither the 
servants nor the gardener are in the habit of wan- 
dering on that side of the house, which is but a slope, 
shaded by a few trees. It is but a few minutes' walk 
from the forest.” 

“Your supposition, then, is that the criminal en- 
tered your study through this window, and stole your 
revolver?” 

“It seems probable.” 

“And for nearly two months you never thought of 
opening the case in which you kept that weapon?” 

“I did not think of it, Monsieur. My mother placed 
this revolver within my reach, but I believed it a 
useless precaution, for the neighborhood is very 
peaceable.” 

“On the day of the crime you were expected at a 
garden party?” 

“Yes, Monsieur.” 

“Yet, although Mile. LaFaucher, with whom you 
were already in love, was there, you did not go. Why 
not?” 


135 


HER SACRIFICE 

“As I have already told you, I was not feeling well 
and wanted solitude.” 

The examination continued, and the accused re- 
plied with the same calmness that had marked his 
first answers. 

Public opinion began to waver. The women were 
in favor of the handsome young man who looked so 
gentle and intelligent, but the men, especially those 
who claimed great pretensions to equality, reproached 
him his title, his quiet and distinguished manners. 
He evidently placed little value on proofs that would 
have overwhelmed a poor devil ! 

When questioned on his relations with the victim, 
Myron answered firmly and without a moment of 
hesitation. 

‘‘Harold Stamer and myself were closely linked, as 
often happens, through the hazzard of being class j 
mates, and through the emulation for places, in 
which we contested with each other. There was be- 
tween us no real sympathy, but there, nevertheless, 
existed in our relations a certain attraction, which 
often comes from certain dissimilarities. We loved 
to discuss, sure beforehand that one of us would in- 
stinctively take the opposite side of the question. 
But those discussions rarely went to the end, for 
Stamer could not bear contradiction, and I detested 
quarrels. He was, nevertheless, always the first to 
come back to me.” 

“It would then seem that the captain was more 
attracted by you than you by him?” 

“It is possible. But from the moment we became 
rivals, this attraction turned to hatred in him.” 

“This hatred, it is said, existed on both sides.” 

“I judged him severely, perhaps, but my antipathy 
did not go so far as hatred.” 

136 


HER SACRIFICE 

“Yet you were trying to find an occasion to chal- 
lenge him.” 

“We found ourselves in a situation to which there 
was no other issue. Only I wanted to find another 
pretext, not wishing to mix in this quarrel the name 
of the young girl who has since become my wife.” 

“The captain was known to be a formidable duell- 
ist.” 

“I know it, Monsieur, and it has been insinuated 
that fear drove me to murder; in a word, I am ac- 
cused of cowardice. I appeal to all men of honor, 
to all men of my education, is such a thing possible ?” 

There was in his voice such an accent of truth, so 
much vibrating indignation that a murmur of appro- 
bation floated through the audience. It was quick- 
ly repressed, however, and the president reminded 
the accused that he was there to reply to the ques- 
tions addressed to him, and not to plead his cause. 

The witnesses were then called. 

M. Stamer, brother of the victim, was the first to 
give his testimony. Although it was known that he 
could throw no light on the matter, he, nevertheless, 
excited a deep curiosity. He was a man of about 
forty, of sallow complexion, and with sharp, restless 
eyes. It was evident that to him the guilt of Myron 
d’Arcy admitted of no doubt. When reminded that 
the captain and himself had never shown much fra- 
ternal affection, he protested that they were of the 
same blood ; that this blood now cried for vengeance ; 
that he would never rest until justice was done! He 
then related his arrival on the scene of the crime. 

“It was Myron d’Arcy,” he went on, “who sent 
me the dispatch; he alone knew my address. Dur- 
ing his school days he often came to spend a holiday 
at my home with my brother. When I saw him, 
therefore, I went to him with outstretched hand ; but 
137 


HER SACRIFICE 


he pretended not to see it, and merely bowed, as if 
to a stranger. He seemed much preoccupied, very 
gloomy and exceedingly bored by the questions asked 
him. This uneasiness struck me. I had been told 
that Myron d’Arcy and my brother were in love 
with the same young girl, and that the chances were 
in Harold’s favor. Notwithstanding a certain rough- 
ness, my brother was always successful with women ; 
he knew well how to soften his voice and his glance 
when he was in love, and the contrast between this 
sudden gentleness and his habitual bluffness was 
very seductive. When Myron d’Arcy refused me 
his hand, it gave me the impression that he was not 
a stranger to my unfortunate brother’s death.” 

“Why did you not mention your suspicions at the 
time?” interrupted the president. 

“How could I, Monsieur? M. d’Arcy was known 
and esteemed through the whole country, and seemed 
to hold an unassailable position. Beside, what proof 
could I give against him? None. But the more I 
reflected over this sad affair, the more convinced I 
became that my first impression was right. Harold 
was a stranger in the vicinity and could have no ene- 
mies ; if he had a few discussions, it is not admissible 
that these light quarrels would excite an implacable 
hatred. On the other hand, it is well known that 
Myron d’Arcy was passionately in love; it was the 
love of a man of study, of a man who has really 
had no youth, a sudden explosion with a violence that 
bordered on madness. As soon as he was rid of his 
redoubtable rival, his somber humor disappeared. 
His joy could not be concealed ; he was so triumphant 
that the contrast with his former gloom struck every- 
body. When the news of his arrest reached me, it 
seemed to me that I had expected it since the day 
when I saw him standing beside my brother’s body.” 

138 


HER SACRIFICE 

The servant was the next to testify. He was an 
ill-favored man, with a low brow, thick lips, and 
seemed very proud of the importance given him by 
this affair. At first he chose his phrases very care- 
fully, but relaxed somewhat as he went on, feeling 
sure that this brilliant assemblage was listening at- 
tentively. 

“You pretend to have overheard a violent quarrel 
betwen the accused and the victim ?” asked the presi- 
dent. 

“Yes, Monsieur. I went with my companions to 
get the remains of the breakfast, but was alone at 
that moment. As I could not hear plainly, I went 
nearer,” replied the witness. 

“You have, no doubt, a habit of listening at key- 
holes ?” 

“Oh, no; for I might be caught. But I admit 
that I am inquisitive, and was anxious to be well in- 
formed.” 

“What interest could this altercation have for 
you ?” 

“Well, you see, Monsieur, we have few distrac- 
tions in the country, and the affairs at Cote-Boise 
were often discussed in the kitchen. Each had his 
candidate; mine was the captain. First, because 
Mile. LaFaucher encouraged him, then ” 

“Then — go on.” 

“Then, Monsieur, people say that M. Myron 
d’Arcy should have married the elder, and not the 
younger sister. In fact, I was much amused by the 
affair, and was anxious to know what was going 
on. I did not reach the spot until the end of the 
quarrel, but I swear that I heard threats.” 

“From M. d’Arcy?” 

“Both were much excited; they were talking at 
the same time and not listening to each other. Final- 
139 


HER SACRIFICE 

ly the captain hurried away, and I had scarcely time 
to conceal myself behind a tree ” 

“It was owing to your gossip after the crime that 
you were dismissed from service? Without proof 
whatever, you accused M. d’Arcy of being the mur- 
derer ?” 

“I was sure of it. As to my dismissal, the lady 
was a foreigner, and I was tired of waiting on a 
table where I could not understand a word that was 
said. I was on the point of leaving when she gave 
me notice. Before another week, the whole country 
was as sure as myself that the baron had done the 
deed.” 

“It was to you that the peasant remitted the revol- 
ver when found?” 

“Yes, Monsieur. I paid ten francs for it, but I 
do not regret my money, for in cleaning it I found the 
initials M. N. A., and I immediately brought the re- 
volver to the authorities. My plan was to have him 
arrested before the ceremony. But there was some 
delay. Besides, M. le Comte, who knew the high 
standing of the two families, wanted to avoid scan- 
dal as much as possible. He went to the chateau 
himself, and I am told was mistaken for a guest.” 

After this testimony, the interest flagged. A few 
neighbors and friends who had known Myron in his 
childhood were called, but their testimony was of 
no importance. 

There was a ripple of excitement, followed by a 
deathlike stillness when the president said : 

“Call Mile. LaFaucher.” 

Fatigue was forgotten, and all eyes and ears were 
strained to see and hear the most important deposi- 
tion of the day. 

When she reached the court house, in the midst of 
a surging throng, Edloe appreciated the kindness of 
140 


HER SACRIFICE 


her old friend, the Marquis, in obtaining permission 
to await her turn in a private room. In her nervous 
state it would have been exceedingly painful to feel 
herself an object of curiosity or compassion. She 
had slept but little the previous night, and was al- 
most glad that the moment had come when she could 
rid herself of the nightmare that haunted her — like 
the wounded man who is anxiously awaiting the com- 
ing of the surgeon, and repeats to himself once the 
operation is over he will be left in peace. 

Yet in spite of all, she still believed in that long- 
expected miracle; convinced that at the last moment 
the real culprit would cry out: “That man is inno- 
cent !” How often her imagination had evoked the 
scene — then she saw Myron free, proud and happy, 
and herself once more shut up in her solitude burying 
her secret with herself. And all would be well. 
Myron would never know that she had loved him 
with passion. Alice would never suspect at what 
price her happiness had been bought. The modesty 
of her soul, that sacred modesty, would be respected. 
The horrible sacrifice would be unnecessary. 

And in the solitude of the little room in which she 
found herself, she held her breath in expectation. 
Sometimes a confused murmur would reach her 
from the court-room. She knew that if the scene 
evoked in her poor, tired brain was produced, this 
murmur would be transformed in acclamations, that 
nothing could prevent the burst of joy and applause. 
Then she would understand. 

But time passed on, and this absurd hope became 
weaker and weaker, and finally vanished. Her agony 
now increased; she asked herself if her strength 
would carry her to the end. It must, since she alone 
could now save Myron. He would be saved! He 
would emerge from this place, where he was now 
141 


HER SACRIFICE 


seated like a vulgar criminal, with head erect. In 
the midst of her anguish, Edloe felt a sentiment of 
divine joy in thinking that it was from her hand, 
that hand he would not take, that he would receive 
freedom, the happiness of his whole life. 

When the usher came to her, she was already 
standing, ready to go. 

Nevertheless, as she caught a confused glimpse of 
the judges and the excited throng, she instinctively 
shrank back for a moment. It was no doubt thus, 
that Christian virgins, in the days of persecution, 
faltered for a moment when they found themselves 
suddenly in the arena, the center of attraction for 
thousands of spectators who had come to see them 
tortured. Then Edloe turned to Myron. As she 
saw him, so altered, pale and emaciated, she was in- 
vaded by a compassion that almost transfigured her. 
He had suffered greatly, and she would put an end 
to his sufferings. 

She mechanically answered the preliminary ques- 
tions, but as she went on, she detected deep respect 
and compassion in the voice of the president. This 
gave her courage, and her answers came more dis- 
tinctly and firmly. 

“Rest assured, Mademoiselle, that this trial to 
which we are forced to submit you, will not be of 
long duration,” said the president, kindly. 

“I am at your orders, Monsieur,” she replied. 

One of Edloe’s greatest charms was her voice; it 
was singularly pure and sweet. Even when speaking 
low it was distinctively heard. It was also felt that 
each word she uttered must be true and sincere. Be- 
sides, her extreme pallor, her evident suffering, ex- 
cited the sympathy of all. She replied very simply, 
without a gesture, her hands clasped together in her 
muff, her eyes fixed on the president. 

142 


HER SACRIFICE 

“You have known the accused for many years, I 
believe ?” 

“Since we were children together. His mother and 
my mother were intimate friends.” 

“Was he violent and passionate in his childhood ?” 

“Not at all, Monsieur. The child promised what 
the grave and studious man has become.” 

“You never heard him speak of his comrade, Har- 
old Stainer?” 

“Never. Myron was at college, and we met less 
frequently as he grew older. I saw Captain Stamer 
on the day I met my sister at the station. I heard 
his name for the first time when M. d’Arcy intro- 
duced him.” 

“He was very soon admitted into the intimacy of 
your family?” 

“He was constantly with Myron, Monsieur, and as 
Myron was almost considered as a relative, the cap- 
tain’s visits were quite frequent. Moreover, we were 
receiving a great deal of company at the time, as I 
desired to make my sister’s stay in the country as 
agreeable as possible.” 

“Did you not soon perceive that the captain was 
in love with your sister, and that M. d’Arcy was 
jealous ?” 

Edloe hesitated a moment, then replied firmly: 
“As soon as I understood that M. Stamer was inter- 
ested in my sister I tried to warn her against him. 
I did not believe he could make her happy.” 

“And from that moment you thought of marrying 
her to your neighbor?” 

“No, Monsieur,” she said, after another moment 
of hesitation, “I did not think of it at the time. It 
was only later, when I understood that they loved 
each other, that this marriage was decided.” 

“Pardon me, Mademoiselle, if I am forced to ques- 
i43 


HER SACRIFICE 

tion you on your private sentiments, but I am abso- 
lutely forced to it. At the time of the arrest, you 
tried to save the accused by declaring that you were 
conversing with him in the park at the time of the 
crime. Your sister’s words destroyed this testimony. 
According to her, you were too ill to go out. On 
her return she found you exactly as she had left you, 
a prey to such pain that you could scarcely lift your 
head.” 

Here the attention of the audience became such 
that even the slight murmur of the throng ceased. 

In the absolute silence, Edloe’s sweet voice rang 
out, clear and distinct: 

“Monsieur, I have never told a falsehood. I would 
not lie, even to save my brother-in-law.” 

“Your brother-in-law, it is possible. Pardon me, 
Mademoiselle, if I allude to a very delicate subject. 
But in your neighborhood you were believed to be 
betrothed to the Baron d’Arcy.” 

“It was a mistake, Monsieur, we were never be- 
trothed.” 

“Although there may have been no engagement be- 
tween you, a sentiment more tender than friendship 
might have led you to utter a heroic falsehood. A 
woman who loves will sacrifice everything, even her 
reputation, to save the man she loves.” 

“I have told no falsehood, Monsieur. When, in 
spite of serious family reasons I consented to receive 
Alice as my sister, I took solemn engagements with 
myself in regard to her. She is six years younger 
than I, and I considered her somewhat in the light of 
a child. I believed I was doing my duty on that day 
in thinking of her future.” 

“It was about that time, then, that you understood 
what others had long been aware of — that is, that M. 

144 


HER SACRIFICE 

d’Arcy was in love with your sister and desired to 
marry her?’’ 

“Yes, Monsieur.” 

“In that case, would it not have been more simple 
to have had a frank explanation with Mme. d’Arcy? 
Did you not fear to compromise your reputation by 
giving a rendezvous to a young man who was sup- 
posed to be your fiance ?” 

Edloe’s face turned a trifle paler. After a silence 
that seemed an eternity, she replied, with a great 
effort : 

“I had grave and personal reasons to act as I did. 
You must realize, Monsieur, that in declaring that I 
gave a secret rendezvous, knowing the interpretation 
that might be placed on this meeting, I am not doing 
an indifferent thing — that I suffer. It seems to me 
I might well be believed.” 

For the first time her calmness was visibly trou- 
bled; there was a tremor in her voice, like a sup- 
pressed cry of torture and anguish. A sympathizing 
murmur arose from the crowd. 

“Do you not see, Mademoiselle, that this half 
avowal gives a terrible likelihood to the hypothesis 
mentioned a few moments ago? To many women, 
a falsehood under such circumstances is not only ex- 
cusable but heroic.” 

“And yet,” cried the girl, “I have not lied!” 

“Admit that you are telling the truth. What time 
did you go into the park ?” 

“I had given a rendezvous to Myron for half 
past three, but, although I went down a little before 
three, I found him already there when I reached 
the cross.” 

“All these details seem well fixed in your mem- 
ory ?” 

“They are indeed!” 

i45 




HER SACRIFICE 

‘‘No one saw you going out or coming in ?” 

“No one.” 

“It is a pity, Mademoiselle, a great pity. I need not 
tell you how respected and honored you are personal- 
ly by all who know you, and I assure you that your 
testimony will have weight with the jury. But if you 
had the least proof, however slight, to support our 
words ” 

“Then,” cried Edloe, in a vibrating voice, “then, 
the accusation would prove groundless ?” 

“Evidently. But that proof?” 

“That proof exists, Monsieur!” 

A stifled exclamation arose from every throat. 
And above this murmur, Edloe heard a woman's sob. 
Her strength almost deserted her, she recognized 
Alice in that weeping woman. She was evidently 
there with her mother-in-law, lost in the throng, 
anxiously watching the testimony that would decide 
Myron's fate. The chalice was full ; she must drink 
it to the dregs ! 

Order was re-established, and the president once 
more turned to Edloe. 

“What proof have you, Mademoiselle?” 

It was only after several unsuccessful efforts that 
she succeeded in answering. At last, in a monoton- 
ous and weary voice, as if she were repeating a les- 
son learned by heart, she said, painfully: 

“I understand, Monsieur, that you admit, as proofs, 
the account books of merchants, well kept registers, 
and even household accounts.” 

“It is true.” 

“The proof that I bring is my diary; that is, the 
register of my hidden thoughts, of my most secret 
sentiments. In it you will find the incidents of that 
day very minutely described. After reading it no 
one can doubt my veracity.” 

146 


HER SACRIFICE 

Instinctively she turned her head. Myron’s ardent 
gaze acted as magnetism. There was nothing to con- 
ceal now. Even before the reading of these sheets, 
Myron understood the extent of the sacrifice, knew 
that he had been loved, adored by this poor, misunder- 
stood young girl. He saw all this on her agonized 
face. And in that long gaze, she read the depths of 
his soul and realized that he knew, that he bowed 
down before her in spirit, that he blessed her; she 
saw that it was her in this supreme moment that he 
thought of and not Alice, although her sobs had 
revealed her presence there, but of her, of her only. 
That instant repaid her for all. 

Yet, when the president asked for the diary, she 
retained it for a moment longer, loath to part with 
it. 

“May I ask, Monsieur, that only the parts abso- 
lutely necessary shall be read? I suffer much ” 

She could not finish her phrase, but all had under- 
stood. 

“I give you my word, Mademoiselle. But to prove 
to the gentlemen of the jury that this is not a manu- 
script fabricated for the occasion, I shall have to read 
a few passages taken at random during the months 
that preceded the day of the crime. Moreover/’ he 
added as he turned the pages, “the color of the ink, 
paler in many places, is a conclusive proof that this 
journal was written at different times. I see that it 
dates back to nearly three years ago.” 

During the reading she remained motionless, al- 
most as white as a marble statue. It seemed to her 
that life was dying out within her, that each instant 
left her colder, that the blood was freezing in her 
veins. She listened to the expressionless voice of the 
clerk as he read aloud that all might hear the de- 
spairing avowals, the cries of passion, she had writ- 
147 


CHAPTER XVI. 


HEX REWARD. 

Edloe LaFaucher was very ill, but she did not die. 
Her aunt nursed her day and night, suffering no one 
to approach the bedside where her niece, a prey to 
an ardent fever, talked wildly; her brain ever busy, 
her eyes haggard and frightened, as if pursued by 
a nameless terror. 

Myron and his young wife no longer thought of 
the proposed journey. They came every day to the 
chateau, where they saw no one but the servants. At 
last, one morning they were told that the danger was 
over, that the delirium had ceased. As they refused 
to leave without seeing Mme. Vaudery, she appeared, 
very cold and distant, scarcely deigning to answer 
their questions. 

“It is true the doctor has hopes,” she said. “The 
delirium has ceased. Do you know what she repeats 
incessantly: ‘Oh, aunt, why did you save me? I 
long so much for death ; I am so weary ; I have spent 
all my strength!’ I believe I preferred her delirium 
to this cry.” 

“If you knew, Aunt Louise, how much I have 
wept,” murmured Alice. 

“You can do that without effort,” said Mme. Vau- 
dery, dryly. 

“I know you will never forgive me. All that has 
happened is not my fault, and yet without me it would 
not have been.” 


149 


HER SACRIFICE 

ten for herself only. Sometimes, the sense did not 
penetrate into her tired brain ; then, again, it seemed 
to her that the words re-echoed within her with pierc- 
ing accents.” 

“My little Alice, if you knew, if you could guess the 
thought that struggles within me! Are you really 
what you seem ? But what matters since you possess 
that all-powerful charm ; since, though doubting and 
questioning, still I love you; since to spare you a 
tear, I would weep day and night; since to give you 
happiness, I would accept perpetual sadness and de- 
spair.” 

And then again: 

“My God ! My God ! How I suffer ! How unhappy 
I am! How I wish I could die! He called me sis- 
ter. Was it simply a commonplace word of affection, 
or was it said with a particular intention? Am I 
not destined to become his sister some day? Alas! 


And now her secret belonged to the world; it 
would be tossed about amidst peals of laughter as 
children toss a toy balloon filled with air. She could 
never appear before the world without the remem- 
brance of this cruel day standing as a wall between 
herself and those who gazed at her. And that was 
nothing, Myron knew that he had been loved. Alice 
knew it also. And nothing, nothing could make them 
forget this sad love ! 

Yet, in spite of all, in spite of her personal suffer- 
ings, her sacrifice brought her infinite sweetness. My- 
ron was saved, and saved by her. 

When the reading was at last terminated, a feel- 
ing of numbness came over her, and without a cry 
she fell heavily to the floor. 


148 


HER SACRIFICE 


Aunt Louise remained inflexible and silent. My- 
ron instinctively threw his arm around Alice and 
said: 

“I am sure that Edloe is less harsh to this child 
than you.” 

“In fact, Myron, she never once mentioned you in 
her delirium. It was Alice she called incessantly, as 
if in the crisis she had gone through, all had foun- 
dered, except that instinct of maternity, that need of 
loving which has cost her so much.” 

Before she could be prevented, Alice escaped from 
the room, ran wildly up the stairs, and entered the 
sick chamber from which she had so long been ex- 
cluded. When Mme. Vaudery reached it in her 
turn, followed by Myron, Alice was kneeling beside 
the bed, and Edloe, radiant and with eyes sparkling 
with happiness, was caressing her with her weak, 
trembling hand. 

“I understand it all now,” stammered the younger 
sister, “and will try all my life to remember that 
there is something above happiness. Tell me that 
you forgive, tell me what I can do to merit this for- 
giveness some day.” 

“But I have nothing to forgive you, my little Alice. 
I have loved you, that is all. Some day, if you have 
many children, you will give me one — a blonde little 
girl. I will bring her up and love her so much. There 
is within me a sentiment of maternal love.” 

The young couple finally left for Italy, where their 
stay was indefinitely prolonged, because Alice was 
failing in health, and her husband was staying to see 
if she could regain her health. On the advice of the 
physician, Edloe also left her dear solitude and went 
with her aunt to Algeria. She felt the need of leav- 
150 


HER SACRIFICE 

ing the spot, for some time at least, where she had 
suffered so much. 

She recovered her physical strength long before 
the wounds in her heart closed, but the cure came at 
last. Edloe acquired a taste for traveling, and her 
aunt, who was fond of a change, encouraged her. 
More than a year passed thus, and Edloe recovered 
her former serenity and was almost contented. 

A few months after Myron's acquittal, Captain 
Stamer’s murderer was discovered. He was a poor 
soldier who had deserted, exasperated by the harsh- 
ness of his captain. While almost dying of starva- 
tion, he had entered a house with the intention of 
robbery, and finding a revolver, the idea immediately 
came to him to kill the man who was the cause of 
his troubles. Later, being arrested for desertion and 
burglary, he related how he had avenged himself on 
his commander. 

When Edloe finally returned to the chateau the 
Spring was in its full splendor, but it was a sad home- 
coming, for Alice was dead. She died with the love 
of all. 

Myron's only thought now was to raise his son, to 
bring him up as his mother would have, if she had 
been living. 

The chateau is now like it was two years before; 
the young chatelaine is accompanying Mme. d’Arcy 
to the end of the park. Again as they walk on, 
their gaze wanders over the sea, the graceful curve 
of the yellow shore, the thin silhouette of the distant 
harbor. They seem equally happy to see each other. 
Mme. d'Arcy, not daring to express all her thoughts, 
displayed infinite tenderness in her least words, in 
her least gestures, and Edloe understood it all. 

Edloe was her old self again. Preparations were 
151 


HER SACRIFICE 

being made for a wedding that would soon take place ; 
again uniting two of the most prominent families in 
that section of the country. 

Mme. d'Arcy was as happy as the rest, for the de- 
sire of her life would now be fulfilled, that Edloe 
would soon be her daughter. 

Mme. Vaudery is very glad that Edloe would now 
be happy. It had been decided that they should all 
live together on Myron's place and that Edloe should 
rent the chateau to our American friends. 

Little Myron junior was now three years old. He 
was the picture of his mother, with his light hair, and 
by this he often caused the things of the past to be 
thought of by all who had loved her and he was often 
told of his mother. 

Let us now leave Edloe in peace. Her sacrifice 
was not fruitless, for she has now received her re- 
ward. She yearns for death no longer, as she had 
done during that horrible crisis. She loved life, not- 
withstanding the shade of sadness which she could 
not completely throw off and which had nothing of 
bitterness, and she found it good to live, for she was 
now loved by a devoted husband and three children, 
one of which they all thought a great deal of was a 
little girl named Alice. 

Happiness having thus come, she regretted noth- 
ing. 


[The End.] 




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